




PHKSKNTED BY 


SCENES 


OF 

CLERICAL LIFE. 


GEORGE ELIOT. 




'■ NEW YORK: 

JOHN W. LOVELL CO., PUBLISHERS, 
AND 1 6 Vesey Street. 


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CONTENTS. 


The Sad Fortunes of Rev. Amos Lui«j<i - 
Mr. Gilfil’s Love-Story - • 

Janet’s Repentance • • • 




ei 





THE SAD FORTUNES 

OF 

THE REV. AMOS BARTON 


CHAPTER I. 

Shepperton Church was a very different-looking building 
five-and-twenty years ago. To be sure, its substantial stone 
tower looks at you through its intelligent eye, the clock, with 
le friendly expression of former days; but in everything 
else what changes ! Now there is a wide span of slated roof 
flanking the old steeple ; the windows, are tall and symmet- 
rical ; the outer doors are resplendent with oak-grained, the 
inner doors reverentially noiseless with a garment of red 
baize ; and the walls, you are convinced, no lichen will ever 
again effect a settlement on — they are smooth and innutrient 
as the summit of the Rev. Amos Barton’s head, after ten years 
of baldness and supererogatory soap. Passthrough the baize 
doors, and you will see the nave filled with well-shaped 
benches, understood to be free seats ; while in certain eligible 
corners, less directly under the fire of the clergyman’s eye, 
there are pews reserved for the Shepperton gentility. Ample 
galleries are supported on iron pillars, and in one of them 
stands the crowing glory, the very clasp or aigrette of Shepper- 
ton church-adornment — namely, an organ, not very much out 
of repair, on which a collector of small rents, differentiated by 
the force of circumstances into an organist, will accompany 
the alacrity of your departure after the blessing, by a sacred 
minuet or an easy “ Gloria.” 

Immense improvement ! says the well-regulated mind, 
which unintermittingly rejoices in the New Police, the Tithe 
Commutation Act, the penny-post, and all guaranties of human 
advancement, and has no moments when conservative-reform- 


4 


SCEA^ES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


ing intellect takes a nap, while imagination does a little Tory- 
ism by the sly, revelling in regret that dear, old, brown crumb- 
ling, picturesque inefficiency is everywhere giving place to 
spick-and-span new-painted, new varnished efficiency, which 
will yield endless diagrams, plans, elevations, and sections, 
but alas : no picture. Mine, I fear, is not a well-regulated 
mind : it has an occasional tenderness for all abuses ; it lin- 
gers with a certain fondness over the days of nasal clerks and 
top-booted parsons, and has a sigh for the departed shades of 
vulgar errors. So it is not surprising that I recall with a fond 
sadness Shepperton Church as it was in the old days, with its 
outer coat of rough stucco, its red-tiled roof, its heterogeneous 
windows patched with desultory bits of painted glass, and its 
little flight of steps with their wooden rail running up the 
outer wall, and leading to the school-children’s gallery. 

Then inside, what dear old quaintnesses ! which I began to 
look at with delight even when I was so crude a member of 
the congregation that my nurse found it necessary to provide 
for the re-enforcement of my devotional patience by smuggling 
bread-and-butter into the sacred edifice. There was the chan- 
cel, guarded by two little cherubim looking uncomfortably 
squeezed between arch and wall, and adorned with the escut- 
cheons of the Oldinport family, which showed me inexhaust- 
ible possibilities of meaning in their blood-red hands, their 
death’s-heads and cross-bones, their leopards’ paws, and Mal- 
tese crosses. There were inscriptions on the panels of the 
singing-gallery, telling of benefactions to the poor of Shepper- 
ton, with an involuted elegance of capitals and final flour- 
ishes, which my alphabetic erudition traced with ever-new de- 
light. No benches in those days ; but huge roomy pews, 
round which devout church-goers sat during “ lessons,” try- 
ing to look anywhere else than into each other’s eyes. No 
low partitions allowing you, with a dreary absense of contrast 
and mystery, to see everything at all moments ; but tall dark 
panels, under whose shadow 1 sank with a sense of retirement 
through the Litany, only to feel with more intensity my burst 
into the conspicuousness of public life when I was made to 
stand up on the seat during the psalms or the singing. 

And the singing was no mechanical affair of official rou- 
tine ; it had a drama. As the moment of psalmody approached, 
by some process to me as mysterious and untraceable as the 
opening of the flowers or the breaking-out of the stars, a slate 
appeared in front of the gallery, advertising in bold characters 
the psalm about to be sung, lest the sonorous announcement 


A A/OS BAI^TON. 


5 

of the clerk should still leave the bucolic mind in doubt on 
that head. Then followed the migration of the clerk to the 
gallery, where, in company with a bassoon, two key-bugles, a 
carpenter understood to have an amazing power of singing 
“counter,” and two lesser musical stars, he formed a comple- 
ment of a choir regarded in Shepperton as one of distin- 
guished attraction, occasionally known to draw hearers from 
the next parish. The innovation of hymn-books was as yet 
undreamed of ; even the New Version was regarded with a 
sort of melancholy tolerance, as part of the common degen- 
eracy in a time when prices had dwindled, and a cotton gown 
was no longer stout enough to last a lifetime ; for the lyrical 
taste of the best heads in Shepperton had been formed on 
Sternhold and Hopkins. But the greatest triumphs of the 
Shepperton choir were reserved for the Sundays when the 
slate announced an Anthem, with a dignified abstinence from 
particularization, both words and music lying far beyond the 
reach of the most ambitious amateur in the congregation : — 
an anthem in which the key-bugles always ran at a great 
pace, while the bassoon every now and then boomed a flying 
shot after them. 

As for the clergyman, Mr. Gilfil, an excellent old gentle- 
man, who smoked very long pipes, and preached very short 
sermons, I must not speak of him, or I might be tempted 
to tell the story of his life, which had its little romance, as 
most lives have between the ages of teetotum and tobacco. 
And at present I am concerned with quite another sort of 
clergyman — the Rev. Amos Barton, who did not come to 
Shepperton until long after Mr. Gilfil had departed this life — 
until after an interval in which Evangelicalism and the 
Catholic Question had begun to agitate the rustic mind with 
controversial debates. A Popish blacksmith had produced a 
strong Protestant reaction by declaring that, as soon as the 
Emancipation Bill was passed, he should do a great stroke of 
business in gridirons ; and the disinclination of the Shepper- 
ton parishioners generally to dim the unique glory of St. Law- 
rence, rendered the Church and Constitution an affair of their 
business and bosoms. A zealous Evangelical preacher had 
made the old sounding-board vibrate with quite a different 
sort of elocution from Mr. GilfiPs ; the hymn-book had almost 
superseded the Old and New Versions ; and the great square 
pews were crow'ded with new faces from distant corners of 
the parish — perhaps from Dissenting chapels. 

You are not imagining, I hope, that Amos Barton was the 


6 


SCENES OE CLERICAL LIFE, 


incumbent of Shepperton. He was no such thing. Those 
were days when a man could hold three small livings, starve 
a curate apiece on two of them, and live badly himself on the 
third. It was so with the Vicar of Shepperton ; a vicar given 
to bricks and mortar, and thereby running into debt far away 
in a northern county — who executed his vicarial functions 
towards Shepperton by pocketing the sum of thirty-five pounds 
ten per annum, the net surplus remaining to him from the 
proceeds of that living, after the disbursement of eighty 
pounds as the annual stipend of his curate. And now, pray, 
can you solve me the following problem? Given a man with 
a wife and six children : let him be obliged always to exhibit 
himself when outside his own door in a suit of black broad- 
cloth, such as will not undermine the foundations of the 
Establishment by a paltry plebeian glossiness or an unseemly 
whiteness at the edges ; in a snowy cravat, which is a serious 
investment of labor in the hemming, starching, and ironing 
departments ; and in a hat which shows no symptom of taking 
to the hideous doctrine of expediency, and shaping itself 
according to circumstances ; let him have a parish large 
enough to create an external necessity for abundant shoe- 
leather, and an internal necessity for abundant beef and mut- 
ton, as well as poor enough to require frequent priestly con- 
solation in the shape of shillings and sixpences ; and, lastly, 
let him be compelled, by his own pride and other people’s, to 
dress his wife and children with gentility from bonnet-strings 
to shoe-strings. By what process of division can the sum of 
eighty pounds per annum be made to yield a quotient which 
will cover that man’s weekly expenses ? This was the pro- 
blem presented by the position of the Rev. Amos Barton, as 
curate of Shepperton, rather more than twenty years ago. 

What was thought of this problem, and of the man who 
had to work it out, by some of the well-to-do inhabitants of 
Shepperton, two years or more after Mr. Barton’s arrival 
among them, you shall hear, if you will accompany me to 
Cross Farm, and to the fireside of Mrs. Patten, a childless 
old lady, who had got rich chiefly by the negative process of 
spending nothing. Mrs. Patten’s passive accumulation of 
wealth, through all sorts of “ bad times,” on the farm of which 
she had been sole tenant since her husband’s death, her 
epigrammatic neighbor, Mrs. Hackit, sarcastically accounted 
for by supposing that “ sixpences grew on the bents of Gross 
Farm ; ” while Mr. Hackit, expressing his views more literally, 
reminded his wife that “ money breeds money.” Mr. and 


A A/OS BARTOA/, 


7 

Mrs. Hackit, from the neighboring farm, are Mrs. Patten’s 
gucsis this evening ; so is Mr. Pilgrim, the doctor from the 
nearest market-town, who, though occasionally affecting aris- 
tocratic airs, and giving late dinners with enigmatic side-dishes 
and poisonous port, is never so comfortable as when he is 
relaxing his professional legs in one of those excellent farm- 
houses where the mice are sleek and the mistress sickly. And 
he is at this moment in clover. 

For the flickering of Mrs. Patten’s bright fire is reflected 
in her bright copper tea-kettle, the home-made muffins glisten 
with an inviting succulence, and Mrs. Patten’s neice, a single 
lady of fifty, who has refused the most ineligible offers out of 
devotion to her aged aunt, is pouring the rich cream into the 
fragrant tea with a discreet liberality. 

Reader ! did you ever taste such a cup of tea as Miss Gibbs 
is this moment handing to Mr. Pilgrim Do you know the 
dulcet strength, the animating blandness of tea sufficiently 
blended with real farmhouse cream.? No — most likely you 
are a miserable town-bred reader, who thinks of cream as a 
thinnish white fluid, delivered in infinitesimal pennyworths 
down area steps ; or perhaps, from a presentment of calves’ 
brains, you refrain from any lacteal addition, and rasp your 
tongue with unmitigated bohea. You have a vague idea of 
a milch cow as probably a white-plaster animal standing in a 
butterman’s window, and you know nothing of the sweet his- 
tory of genuine cream, such as Miss Gibb’s : how it was this 
morning in the udders of the large sleek beasts, as they stood 
lowing a patient entry under the milking-shed; how it fell 
with a pleasant rhythm into Betty’s pail, sending a delicious 
incense into the cool air ; how it was carried into the temple 
of moist cleanliness, the dairy, where it quietly separated 
itself from the meaner elements of milk, and lay in mellowed 
whiteness, ready for the skimming-dish which transferred it to 
Miss Gibb’s glass cream-jug. If I am right in my conjecture, 
you are unacquainted with the highest possibilities of tea ; 
and Mr. Pilgrim, who is holding that cup in his hand, has an 
idea beyond you. 

Mrs. Hackit declines cream ; she has so long abstained 
from it with an eye to the weekly butter-money, that absti- 
nence, wedded to habit, has begotten aversion. She is a thin 
woman with a chronic liver-complaint, which would have se- 
cured her Mr. PUgrim’s entire regard and unreserved good 
word, even if he had not been in awe of her tongue, which was 
as sharp as his own lancet. She has brought her knitting — 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


no frivolous fancy knitting, but a substantial woollen stocking J 
the click-click of her knitting needles is the, running accom- 
paniment to all her conversation ; and in her utmost enjoy- 
ment of spoiling a friend’s self-satisfaction, she was never 
known to spoil a stocking. 

Mrs. Patten does not admire this excessive click-clicking 
activity. Quiescence in an easy-chair, under the sense of 
compound interest perpetually accumulating, has long seemed 
an ample function to her, and she does her malevolence 
gently. She is a pretty little old woman of eighty, with a 
close cap and tiny flat white curls round her face, as natty 
and unsoiled and invariable as the waxen image of a little 
old lady under a glass case ; once a lady’s maid, and married 
for her beauty. She used to adore her husband, and now she 
adores her money, cherishing a quiet blood-relation’s hatred 
for her niece, Janet Gibbs, who, she knows, expects a large 
legacy, and whom she is determined to disappoint. Her 
money shall all go in a lump to a distant relation of her hus- 
band’s, and Janet shall be saved the trouble of pretending to 
cry, by finding that she is left with a miserable pittance. 

Mrs. Patten has more respect for her neighbor Mr. Hackit 
than for most people. Mr. Hackit is a shrewd, substantial 
man, whose advice about crops is always worth listening to, 
and who is too well off to want to borrow money. 

And now that we are snug and warm with this little tea- 
party, while it is freezing with February bitterness outside, 
we will listen to what they are talking about. 

“ So,” said Mr. Pilgrim, w'ith his mouth only half empty of 
muffins, “ you had a row in Shepperton Church last Sunday. 
I was at Jim Hood’s, the bassoon-man’s, this morning, attend- 
ing his wife, and he sw'ears he’ll be revenged on the parson — 
a confounded, methodistical, meddlesome chap, who must be 
putting his finger in every pie. What w^as it all about ? ” 

“ Oh, a passill o’ nonsense,” said Mr. Hackit, sticking one 
thumb between the buttons of his capacious waistcoat, and 
retaining a pinch of snuff with the other — for he v/as but 
moderately given to “ the cups that cheer but not inebriate,” 
and had already finished his tea ; “ they began to sing the 
wedding psalm for a new^-married couple, as pretty a psalm 
an’ as pretty a tune as any in the prayer-book. It’s been 
sung for every new-married couple since I was a boy. And 
what can be better?” Here Mr. Hackit stretched out his 
left arm, threw back his head, and broke into melody — 


AMOS BARTON. 


9 


Oh what a happy thing it is, 
And joyful for to see 
Brethren to dwell together in 
Friendship and unity. 


“ But Mr. Barton is all for the hymns, and a sort o’ music as I 
can’t join in at all.” 

“ And so,” said Mr. Pilgrim, recalling Mr. Hackit from 
lyrical reminiscences to narrative, “ he called out Silence ! did 
he ? when he got into the pulpit ; and gave a hymn out him- 
self to some meeting-house tune } ” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hackit, stooping towards the candle to 
pick up a stitch, “ and turned as red as a turkey-cock. I often 
say, when he preaches about meekness, he gives himself a 
slap in the face. He’s like me — he’s got a temper of his 
own.” 

“ Rather a low-bred fellow, I think, Barton,” said Mr. Pil- 
grim, who hated the Reverend Amos for two reasons — be- 
cause he had called in a new doctor, recently settled in Shep- 
perton ; and because, being himself a dabbler in drugs, he 
had the credit of having cursed a patient of Mr. Pilgrim’s. 
“They say his father was a Dissenting shoemaker; and he’s 
half a Dissenter himself. Why, doesn’t he preach extempore 
in that cottage up here, of a Sunday evening ? ” 

“ Tchuh ! ” — this was Mr. Hackit’s favorite interjection — 
“ that preaching without book’s no good, only when a man 
has a gift, and has the Bible at his fingers’ ends. It was all 
very well for Parry — he’d a gift ; and in my youth I’ve heard 
the Ranters out o’ doors in Yorkshire go on for an hour or 
two on end, without ever sticking fast a minute. There was 
one clever chap, I remember, as used to say, ‘ You’re like the 
woodpigeon ; it says do, do, do all day, and never sets about 
any work itself.’ That’s bringing it home to people. But 
our parson’s gift at all that way ; he can preach as good 
a sermon as need be heard when he writes it down. But 
when he tries to preach wi’ out book, he rambles about, and 
doesn’t stick to his text ; and every now and then he floun- 
ders about like a sheep as had cast itself, and can’t get on its 
legs again. You wouldn’t like that, Mrs. Patten, if you was 
to go to church now ? ” 

“ Eh, dear,” said Mrs. Patten, falling back in her chair, 
and lifting up her little withered hands, “ what ’ud Mr. Gilfil 
say, if he was worthy to know the changes as have come about 
i’ the Church these last ten years } I don’t understand these 
new sort o’ doctrines. When Mr. Barton comes to see me, 


10 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIF 


he talks about nothing but my sins and my need o marcy. 
Novv', Mr. Hackit, IVe never been a sinner. From the fust 
beginning, when I went into service, I al’ys did my duty by 
my emplyers. I was a good wife as any in the country — never 
aggravated my husband. The cheese-factor used to say my 
cheese was al’ys to be depended on. I’ve known w^omen, as 
their cheeses swelled a shame to be seen, when their hus- 
bands had counted on the cheese-money to make up their 
rent; and yet they’d three gowns to my one. If I’m not to 
be saved, I know a many as are in a bad way. But it’s well 
for me as I can’t go to church any longer, for if th’ old sing- 
ers are to be done away with, there’ll be nothing left as it 
was in Mr. Patten’s time ; and what’s more, I hear you’ve 
settled to pull the church down and build it up new ? ” 

Now the fact was that the Rev. Amos Barton, on his last 
visit to Mrs. Patten, had urged her to enlarge her promised 
subscription ot twenty pounds, representing to her that she 
was only a steward of her riches, and that she could not spend 
them more for the glory of God than by giving a heavy sub- 
scription towards the rebuilding of Shepperton Church — a 
practical precept which was not likely to smooth the way to 
her acceptance of his theological doctrine. Mr. Hackit, who 
had more doctrinal enlightenment than Mrs. Patten, had been 
a little shocked by the heathenism of her speech, and was 
glad of the new turn given to the subject by this question, 
addressed to him as church-warden and an authority in all 
parochial matters. 

“Ah,” he answered, “the parson’s bothered us into it at 
last, and we’re to begin pulling down this spring. But we 
haven’t got money enough yet. I was for waiting till we’d 
made up the sum ; and, for my part, I think the congrega- 
tion’s fell off o’ late, though Mr. Barton says that’s because 
there’s been no room for the people when«they’ve come. 
You see, the congregation got so large in Parry’s time, the 
people stood in the aisles ; but there’s never any crowd now, 
as I can see.” 

“ Well,” said Mrs. Hackit, whose good-nature began to 
act, now that it was a little in contradiction with the domi- 
nant tone of the conversation, “/like Mr. Barton. I think 
he’s a good sort o’ man, for all he’s not overburden’d i’ th’ 
upper story ; and his wife’s as nice a lady-like woman as I’d 
wish to see. How nice she keeps her children ! and little 
enough money to do’t with ; and a delicate creatur’ — six chil- 
dren, and another a-coming. I don’t know how they make 


AMOS BARTON. 


II 


both ends meet, I’m sure, now her aunt has left ’em. But I 
sent ’em a cheese and a sack o’ potatoes last week ; that’s 
something towards filling the little mouths.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Mr. Hackit, “ and my wife makes Mr. Barton 
a good stiff glass o’ brandy-and-water, when he comes in to 
supper after his cottage preaching. The parson likes it ; it 
puts a bit o’ color into his face, and makes him look a deal 
handsomer.” 

This allusion to brandy-and-water suggested to Miss Gibbs 
the introduction of the liquor decanters, now that the tea was 
cleared away j for in bucolic society five-and-twenty years ago, 
the human animal of the male sex was understood to be per- 
petually athirst, and “ something to drink ” was as necessary 
a “ condition of thought ” as Time and Space. 

“ Now, that cottage preaching,” said Mr. Pilgrim, mixing 
himself a strong glass of “ cold without,” “ I was talking about 
it to our Parson Ely the other day, and he doesn’t approve 
of it at all. He said it did as much harm as good to give a 
too familiar aspect to religious teaching. That was what Ely 
said — it does as much harm as good to give a too familiar as- 
pect to religious teaching.” 

Mr. Pilgrim generally spoke with an intermittent kind of 
splutter ; indeed, one of his patients had observed that it was 
a pity such a clever man had a “ ’pediment ” in his speech. 
But when he came to what he conceived the pith of his argu- 
ment or the point of his joke, he mouthed out his words with 
slow emphasis ; as a hen, when advertising her accouchement, 
passes at irregular intervals from pianissimo semiquavers to 
fortissimo crotchets. He thought this speech of Mr. Ely’s par- 
ticularly metaphysical and profound, and the more decisive of 
the question because it was a generality which represented no 
particulars to his mind. 

“ Well, I don’t know about that,” said Mrs. Hackit, who 
had always the courage of her opinion, “ but I know, some of 
our labors and stockingers as used never to come to church, 
come to the cottage, and that’s better than never hearing any- 
thing good from week’s end to week’s end. And there’s that 
Track Society as Mr. Barton has begun — I’ve seen more o’ the 
poor people with going tracking, than all the time I’ve lived in 
the parish before. And there’d need be something done 
among ’em; for the drinking at them Benefit Clubs is shameful. 
There’s hardly a steady man or steady woman either, but 
what’s a Dissenter.” 

During this speech of Mrs. Hackit’s, Mr. Pilgrim had emit- 


12 


SCENES OF CLEEICAL LIFE. 


ted a succession of little snorts, something like the treble 
grunts of a guinea-pig, which were always with him the sign 
of suppressed disapproval. But he never contradicted Mrs. 
Hackit — a woman whose “ pot-luck ” was always to be relied 
on, and who on her side had unlimited reliance on bleeding, 
blistering, and draughts. 

Mrs. Patten, however, felt equal disapprobation, and had 
no reasons for suppressing it. 

“ Well,” she remarked, “ IVe heard of no good from inter- 
fering with one’s neighbors, poor or rich. And I hate the sight 
o’ women going about trapesing from house to house in all 
weathers, wet or dry, and coming in with their petticoats 
dagged and their shoes all over mud. Janet wanted to join 
inthe tracking, but I told her I’d have nobody tracking out o’ 
my house ; when I’m gone, she may do as she likes. I never 
dagged my petticoats in my life; and I’ve no opinion o’ that 
sort o’ religion.” 

“ No,” said Mr. Hackit, who was fond of soothing the acer- 
bities of the feminine mind with a jocose compliment, “ you 
held your petticoats so high, to show your tight ankles : it 
isn’t everybody as likes to show her ankles.” 

This joke met with general acceptance, even from the 
snubbed Janet, whose ankles were only tight in the sense of 
looking extremely squeezed by her boots. But Janet seemed 
always to identify herself with her aunt’s personality, holding 
her own under protest. 

Under cover of the general laughter the gentlemen replen- 
ished their glasses, Mr. Pilgrim attempting to give his the char- 
acter of a stirrup-cup by observing that he “ must be going.” 
Miss Gibbs seized this opportunity of telling Mrs. Hackit that 
she suspected Betty, the dairymaid, of frying the best bacon 
for the shepherd, when he sat up with her to “ help brew ; ” 
whereupon Mrs. Hackit replied that she had always thought 
Betty false ; and Mrs. Patten said there was no bacon stolen 
when she was able to manage. Mr. Hackit, who often com- 
plained that he “ never saw the like to women with their maids 
— he never had any trouble with his men,” avoided listening 
to this discussion, by raising the question of vetches with Mr. 
Pilgrim. The stream of conversation had thus diverged ; 
and no more was said about the Rev. Amos Barton, who is the 
main object of interest to us just now. So we may leave Cross 
Farm without waiting till Mrs. Hackit, resolutely donning her 
clogs and wrappings, renders it incumbent on Mr. Pilgrim also 
to filfil his frequent threat of going. 


AMOS BARTON. 


13 


CHAPTER II. 

It was happy for the Rev. Amos Barton that he did not, 
like us, overhear the conversation recorded in the last chap- 
ter. Indeed, what mortal is there of us, who would find his 
satisfaction enhanced by an opportunity of comparing the 
picture he presents to himself of his own doings, with the pic- 
ture they make no mental retina of his neighbors ? We are 
poor plants buoyed up by the air-vessels of our own conceit : 
alas for us, if we get a few pinches that empty us of that 
windy self-subsistence ! The very capacity for good would 
go out of us. For, tell the most impassioned orator, suddenly, 
that his wig is awry, or his shirt-lap hanging out, and that he 
is tickling people by the oddity of his person, instead of 
thrilling them by the engery of his periods, and you would in- 
fallibly dry up the spring of his eloquence. That is a deep 
and wide saying, that no miracle can be wrought without faith 
— without the worker’s faith in himself, as well as the re- 
cipient’s faith in him. And the greater part of the worker’s 
faith in himself is made up of the faith that others believe 
in him. 

Let me be persuaded that my neighbor Jenkins considers 
me a blockhead, and I shall never shine in conversation with 
him any more. Let n>e discover that the lovely Phcebe 
thinks my squint intolerable, and I shall never be able to fix 
her blandly with my disengaged eye again. 

Thank heaven, then, that a little illusion is left to us, to 
enable us to be useful and agreeable — that we don’t know 
exactly what our friends think of us — that the world is not 
made of looking-glass, to show us just the figure we are mak- 
ing, and just what is going on behind our backs ! By the 
help of dear friendly illusion, we are able to dream that we 
are charming — and our faces wear a becoming air of self- 
possession ; we are able to dream that other men admire our 
talents — and our benignity is undisturbed ; we are able to 
dream that we are doing much good — and we do a little. 

Thus it was with Amos Barton on that very Thursday 
evening, when he was the object of the conversation at Cross 
Farm. He had been dining at Mr. Farquhar’s, the second- 
ary squire of the parish, and, stimulated by unwonted gravies 
and port-wane, had been delivering his opinion on affairs 
parochial and extra-parochial with Considerable animation. 


14 


SCEJVES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


And lie was now returning home in the moonlight — a little 
chill, it is true, for he had just now no greatcoat compatible 
with clerical dignity, and a fur boa round one’s neck, with a 
waterproof cape over one’s shoulders, doesn’t frighten away 
the cold from one’s legs ; but entirely unsuspicious, not only 
of Mr. Hackit’s estimate of his oratorical powers, but also of 
the critical remarks passed on him by the Misses Farquhar 
as soon as the drawing-room door had closed behind him. 
Miss Julia had observed that she never heard any one sniff 
so frightfully as Mr. Barton did — she had a great mind to 
offer him her pocket-handkerchief ; and Miss Arabella won- 
dered why he always said he was going for to do a thing. 
He, excellent man ! was meditating fresh pastoral exertions 
on the morrow ; he would set on foot his lending library ; in 
which he had introduced some books that would be a pretty 
sharp blow to the Dissenters — one especially, purporting to 
be written by a working man who, out of pure zeal for the 
welfare of his class, took the trouble to warn them in this way 
against those hypocritical thieves, the Dissenting preachers. 
The Rev. Amos Barton profoundly believed in the existence 
of that working man, and had thoughts of writing to him. 
Dissent, he considered, would have its head bruised in Shep- 
perton, for did he not attack it in two ways } He preached 
Low-Church doctrine — as evangelical as anything to be heard 
in the Independent Chapel ; and he made a High-Church 
assertion of ecclesiastical powers and functions. Clearly, the 
Dissenters would feel that ‘‘ the parson ” was too many for 
them. Nothing like a man who combines shrewdness with 
energy. The wisdom of the serpent, Mr. Barton considered, 
was one of his strong points. 

Look at him as he winds through the little churchyard ! 
The silver light that falls aslant on church and tomb, enables 
you to see his slim black figure, made all the slimmer by 
tight pantaloons, as it flits past the pale gravestones. He 
walks with a quick step, and is now rapping with sharp decis- 
ion at the vicarage door. It is opened without delay by the 
nurse, cook, and housemaid, all at once — that is to say, by 
the robust maid-of-all-work, Nanny ; and as Mr. Barton hangs 
up his hat in the passage, you see that a narrow face of no 
particular complexion — even the small-pox that has attacked 
it seems to have been of a mongrel, indefinite kind — with 
features of no particular shape, and an eye of no particular 
expression, is surmounted by a slope of baldness gently rising 
from brow to crown. You judge him, rightly, to be about 


dMOS BARTON, 


IS 

forty. The house is quiet, for it is half past ten, and the 
children have long been gone to bed. He opens the sitting- 
room door, but instead of seeing his wife, as he expected, 
stitching with the nimblest of fingers by the light of one 
candle, he finds her dispensing with the light of a candle 
altogether. She is softly pacing up and down by the red fire- 
light, holding in her arms little Walter, the year-old baby, 
who looks over her shoulder with large wide-open eyes, while 
the patient mother pats his back with her soft hand, and 
glances with a sigh at the heap of large and small stockings 
lying unmended on the table. 

She was a lovely woman — Mrs. Amos Barton ; a large, 
fair, gentle Madonna, with thick, close chestnut curls beside 
her well-rounded cheeks, and with large, tender, short-sighted 
eyes. The flowing lines of her tall figure made the limpest 
dress look graceful, and her old frayed black silk seemed to 
repose on her bust and limbs with a placid elegance and 
sense of distinction, in strong contrast with the uneasy sense 
of being no fit, that seemed to express itself in the rustling 
of Mrs. Farquhar’s gros de Naples. The caps she wore would 
have been pronounced, when off her head, utterly heavy and 
hideous — for in those days even fashionable caps were large 
and floppy ; but surmounting her long, arched neck, and 
mingling their borders of cheap lace and ribbon with her 
chestnut curls, they seemed miracles of successful millinery. 
Among strangers she was shy and tremulous as a girl of 
fifteen ; she blushed crimson if any one appealed to her opin- 
ion ; yet that tall, graceful, substantial presence was so im- 
posing in its mildness, that men spoke to her with an agree- 
able sensation of timidity. 

Soothing, unspeakable charm of gentle womanhood ! which 
supersedes all acquisitions, all accomplishments. You would 
never have asked, at any period of Mrs. Amos Barton’s life, if 
she sketched or played the piano. You would even perhaps 
have been rather scandalized if she had descended from the 
serene dignity of being Xo the assiduous unrest of doing. Happy 
the man, you would have thought, whose eye will rest on her 
in the pauses of his fireside reading — whose hot aching fore- 
head will be soothed by the contact of her cool, soft hand — 
who will recover himself from dejection at his mistakes and 
failures in the loving light of her unreproaching eyes ! You 
would not, perhaps, have anticipated that this bliss would 
fall to the share of precisely such a man as Amos Barton, 
whom you have already surmised not to have the refined 


i6 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


sensibilities for which you might have imagined Mrs. Barton’s 
qualities to be destined by pre-established harmony. But I, 
for one, do not grudge Amos Barton his sweet wife. I have 
all my life had a sympathy for mongrel, ungainly dogs, who 
are nobody’s pets ; and I would rather surprise one of them 
by a pat and a pleasant morsel, than meet the condescending 
advances of the loveliest Skye-terrier who has his cushion by 
my lady’s chair. That, to be sure, is not the way of the 
world : if it happens to see a fellow of fine proportions and 
aristocratic mien, who makes no faux _pas, and wins golden 
opinions from all sorts of men, it straightway picks out for him 
the loveliest of unmarried women, and says, IViere would be 
a proper match ! Not at all, say I : let that successful, well- 
shapen, discreet and able gentleman put up with something 
less than the best m the matrimonial department ; and let 
the sweet woman go to make sunshine and a soft pillow for 
the poor devil whose legs are not models, whose efforts are 
often blunders, and who in general gets more kicks than half- 
pence. She — the sweet woman — will like it as well ; for her 
sublime capacity of loving will have all the more scope ; and 
I venture to say, Mrs. Barton’s nature would never have 
grown half so angelic if she had married the man you w^ould 
perhaps have had in your eye for her — a man with sufficient 
income and abundant personal eclat. Besides, Amos was 
an affectionate husband and, in his way, valued his wife as 
his best treasure. 

But now he has shut the door behind him, and said, “ Well, 
Milly ! ” 

“ Well, dear ! ” was the corresponding greeting, made elo- 
quent by a smile. 

“ So that young rascal won’t go to sleep ! Can’t you give 
him to Nanny ” 

“Why, Nanny has been busy ironing this evening ; but I 
think I’ll take him to her now.” And Mrs. Barton glided tow- 
ards the kitchen, while her husband ran up stairs to put on 
his maize colored dressing-gown, in which costume he was 
quietly filling his long pipe when his wife returned to the sit- 
ting-room. Maize is a color that decidedly did not suit his 
complexion, and it is one that soon soils ; why, then, did Mr. 
Barton select it for domestic wear ? Perhaps because he had 
a knack of hitting on the wrong thing in garb as well as in 
grammar. 

Mrs. Barton now lighted her candle, and seated herself 
before her heap of stockings. She had something disagree- 


AJl/OS BARTON. 


17 

able to tell her husband, but she would not enter on it at once. 

“ Have you had a nice evening, dear ? ” 

“ Yes, pretty well. Ely was there to dinner, but went 
away rather early. Miss Arabella is setting her cap at him 
with a vengeance. But I don’t think he’s much smitten. I’ve 
a notion Ely’s engaged to some one at a distance, and will as- 
tonish all the ladies who are languishing for him here, by 
bringing home his bride one of these days. Ely’s a sly dog : 
he’ll like that.” 

“ Did the Farquhars say anything about the singing last 
Sunday ? ” 

“Yes; Farquhar said bethought it was time there was 
some improvement in the choir. But he was rather scandal- 
ized at my setting the tune of ‘ Lydia ’ He says he’s always 
hearing it as he passes the Independent meeting.” Here 
Mr. Barton laughed — he had a way of laughing at criticisms 
that other people thought damaging — and thereby showed 
the remainder of a set of teeth which, like the remnants of the 
Old Guard, were few in number, and very much the worse for 
wear. “But,” he continued, “ Mrs. Farquhar talked the 
most about Mr. Bridmain and the Countess. She has taken 
up all the gossip about them, and wanted to convert me to 
her opinion, J3ut I told her pretty strongly what I thought.” 

“ Dear me ! why will people take so much pains to find out 
evil about others ? I have had a note from the Countess since 
you went, asking us to dine with them on Friday.” 

Here Mrs. Barton reached the note from the mantelpiece, 
and gave it to her husband. We will look over his shoulder 
while he reads it : 

Sweetest Milly, — Bring your lovely face with your husband 
to dine with us on Friday at seven — do. If not, I will be sulky 
with you till Sunday, when I shall be obliged to see you, and shall 
long to kiss you that very moment. — Yours, according to youf 
answer, Caroline Czerlaski.” 

“Just like her, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Barton. “I suppose 
we can go ? ” 

“ Yes ; I have no engagement. The Clerical Meeting is 
to-morrow, you know.” 

“ And, dear. Woods the butcher called, to say he must 
have some money next week. He has a payment to make 
up.” 

This announcement made Mr. Barton thoughtful. He 
puffed more rapidly, and looked at the fire. 


i8 


SCENES OF CLEFICAL LIFE, 


“ I think I must ask Hackit to lend me twenty pounds, for 
it is nearly two months till Lady-day, and we can’t give Woods 
our last shilling.” 

“ 1 hardly like you to ask Mr. Hackit, dear — he and Mrs. 
Hackit have been so very kind to us ; they have sent us so 
many things lately.” 

“ Then 1 must ask Oldinport. I’m going to write to him 
to-morrow morning, for to tell him the arrangement I’ve been 
thinking of about having service in the workhouse while the 
church is being enlarged. If he agrees to attend service there 
once or twice, the other people will come. Net the large fish, 
and you’re sure to have the small fry.” 

“ I wish we could do without borrowing money, and yet I 
don’t see how we can. Poor Fred must have some new shoes \ 
I couldn’t let him go to Mrs. Bond’s yesterday because his 
toes were peeping out, dear child ; and I can’t let him walk 
anywhere except in the garden. He must have a pair before 
Sunday. Really, boots and shoes are the greatest trouble of 
my life. Everything else one can turn and turn about, and 
make old look like new ; but there’s no coaxing boots and 
shoes to look better than they are.” 

Mrs. Barton was playfully undervaluing her skill in meta- 
morphosing boots and shoes. She had at that moment on her 
feet a pair of slippers which had long ago lived through the 
prunella phase of their existence, and were now running a re- 
spectable career as black silk slippers, having been neatly 
covered with that material by Mrs. Barton’s own neat fingers. 
Wonderful fingers those ! they were never empty ; for if she 
went to spend a few hours with a friendly parishioner, out came 
her thimble and a piece of calico or muslin, which, before 
she left, had become a mysterious little garment with all sorts 
of hemmed ins and outs. She was even trying to persuade her 
husband to leave off tight pantaloons, because if he would w^ear 
the ordinary gun-cases, she knew she could make them so well 
that no one would suspect the sex of the tailor. 

But by this time Mr. Barton has finished his pipe, the can- 
dle begins to burn low, and Mrs.^Barton goes to see if Nanny 
has succeeded in lulling Walter to sleep. Nanny is that mo- 
ment putting him in the little cot by his mother’s bedside ; the 
head, with its thin wavelets of brown hair, indents the little 
pillow ; and a tiny, waxen, dimpled fist hides the rosy lips, 
for baby is given to the infantine peccadillo of thumb-sucking. 

So Nanny could now join in the short evening prayer, and 
all could go to bed. 


AMOS BA/? TO AT. 


19 

Mrs. Barton carried up stairs the remainder of her heap of 
stockings, and laid them on a table close to her bedside, where 
also she placed a warm shawl, removing her candle, before she 
put it out, to a tin socket fixed at the head of her bed. Her 
body was very weary, but her heart was not heavy, in spite 
Mr. Woods the butcher, and the transitory nature of shoe- 
leather ; for her heart so overflowed with love, she felt sure she 
was near a fountain of love that would care for her husband and 
babes better than she could foresee ; so she was soon asleep. 
But about half past five o’clock in the morning, if there were 
any angels watching round her bed — and angels might be 
glad of such an office — they saw Mrs. Barton rise up quietly, 
careful not to disturb the slumbering Amos, who was snoring 
the snore of the just, light her candle, prop herself upright 
v/ith the pillows, throw the warm shawl round her shoulders, 
and renew her attack on the heap of undarned stockings. 
She darned away until she heard Nanny stirring, and then 
drowsiness came with the dawn ; the candle was put out, and 
she sank into a doze. But at nine o’clock she was at the 
breakfast-table busy cutting bread-and-butter for five hungry 
mouths, while Nanny, baby on one arm, in rosy cheeks, fat 
neck, and night-gown, brought in a jug of hot milk-and-water. 
Nearest her mother sits the nine-year-old Patty, the eldest child, 
whose sweet fair face is already rather grave sometimes, and 
who always wants to run up stairs to save mamma’s legs, which 
get so tired of an evening. Then there are four other blond 
heads — two boys and two girls, gradually decreasing in size 
down to Chubby, who is making a round O of her mouth to 
receive a bit of papa’s “baton” Papa’s attention was divided 
between petting Chubby, rebuking the noisy Fred, which he 
did with a somewhat excessive sharpness, and eating his own 
breakfast. He did not yet look at mamma, and did not know 
that her cheek was paler than usual. But Patty whispered, 
“ Mamma, have you the headache ? ” 

Happily coal was cheap in the neighborhood of Shepper- 
ton, and Mr. Hackit would any time let his horses draw a 
load for “ the parson ” without charge ; so there was a blaz- 
ing fire in the sitting-room, and not without need, for the 
vicarage garden, as they looked out on it from the bow-win- 
cjow, was hard with black frost, and the sky had the white, 
woolly look that portends snow. 

Breakfast over, Mr. Barton mounted to his study, and oc- 
cupied himself in the first place with his letter to Mr. Oldin- 
port. It was very much the same sort of a letter as most 


20 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


clergymen would have written under the same circumstances, 
except that instead of perambulate, the Rev. Amos wrote/r^- 
ambulate, and instead of “if haply,” “if happily,” the contin- 
gency indicated being the reverse of happy. Mr. Barton had 
not the gift of perfect accuracy in English orthography and 
syntax, which was unfortunate, as he was known not to be a 
Hebrew scholar, and not the least suspected of being an ac- 
complished Grecian. These lapses, in a man who had gone 
through the Eleusinian Mysteries of a university education, 
surprised the young ladies of his parish extremely ; especially 
the Misses Farquhar, whom he had once addressed in a letter 
as Dear Mads, apparently an abbreviation for Madams. 
The persons least surprised at the Rev. Amos’s deficiencies 
were his clerical brethren, who had gone through the myster- 
ies themselves. 

At eleven o’clock, Mr. Barton walked forth in cape and 
boa, with the sleet driving in his face, to read prayers at the 
workhouse, euphuistically called the “ College.” The College 
was a huge square stone building, standing on the best apol- 
ogy for an elevation of ground that could be seen for about 
ten miles round Shepperton. A flat ugly district this ; de- 
pressing enough to look at even on the brightest days. The 
roads are black with coal-dust, the brick houses dingy with 
smoke : and at that time — the time of handlooin weavers — 
every other cottage had a loom at its window, where you 
might see a pale, sickly-looking man or woman pressing a 
narrow chest against a board, and doing a sort of treadmill 
work with legs and arms. A troublesome district for a cler- 
gyman ; at least to one who, like Amos Barton, understood 
the “ cure of souls” in something more than an official sense j 
for over and above the rustic stupidity furnished by the 
farm-laborers, the miners brought obstreperous animalism, and 
the weavers an acrid Radicalism and Dissent. Indeed, Mrs. 
Hackit often observed that the colliers, who many of them 
earned better wages than Mr. Barton, “ passed their time in 
doing nothing but swilling ale and smoking, like the beasts 
that perish ” (speaking, we may presume, in a remotely ana- 
logical sense) ; and in some of the ale-house corners the drink 
was flavored by a dingy kind of infidelity, something like 
rinsings of Tom Paine in ditch-water. A certain amount of 
religious excitement created by the popular preaching of Mr. 
Parry, Amos’s predecessor, had nearly died out, and the re- 
ligious life of Shepperton was falling back towards low-water 
mark. Here, you perceive, was a terrible stronghold of Sa- 


AMOS BARTON, 


21 


tan ; ana you may well pity the Rev. Amos Barton, who had 
to stand single-handed and summon it to surrender. We 
read, indeed, that the walls of Jericho fell down before the 
sound of trumpets ; but we nowhere hear that those trum- 
pets were hoarse and feeble. Douftless they were trumpets 
that gave forth clear ringing tones, and sent a mighty vibra- 
tion through brick and mortar. But the oratory of the Rev. 
Amos resembled rather a Belgian railway-horn, which shows 
praiseworthy intentions inadequately fulfilled. He often 
missed the right note both in public and private exhortation, 
and got a little angry in consequence. For though Amos 
thought himself strong, he did not feel himself strong. Nature 
had given him the opinion, but not the sensation. Without 
that opinion he would probably never have worn cambric 
bands, but would have been an excellent cabinetmaker and 
deacon of an Independent church, as his father was before 
him (he was not a shoemaker, as Mr. Pilgrim had reported). 
He might then have sniffed long and loud in the corner of 
his pew in Gun Street Chapel ; he might have in indulged in 
halting rhetoric at prayer-meetings, and have spoken faulty 
English in private life ; and these little infirmities would not 
have prevented him, honest, faithful man that he was, from 
being a shining light in the Dissenting circle of Bridgeport. 
A tallow dip, of the long-eight description, is an excellent 
thing in the kitchen candlestick, and Betty’s nose and eye are 
not sensitive to the difference between it and the finest wax ; 
it is only when you stick it in the silver candlestick, and in- 
troduced it into the drawing-room, that it seems plebeian, dim, 
and ineffectual. Alas for the worthy man who, like that can- 
dle, gets himself into the wrong place ! It is only the very 
largest souls who will be able to appreciate and pity him — 
who will discern and love sincerity of purpose amid all the 
bungling feebleness of achievement. 

But now Amos Barton has made his way through the sleet 
as far as the College, has thrown off his hat, cape, and boa, 
and is reading, in the dreary stone-floored dining-room, a 
portion of the morning service to the inmates seated on the 
benches before him. Remember, the New Poor-law had not 
yet come into operation, and Mr. Barton was not acting as 
paid chaplain of the Union, but as the pastor who had the 
cure of all souls in his parish, pauper as well as other. After 
the prayers he always addressed to them a short discourse on 
some subject suggested by the lesson for the day, striving if 
by this means some edifying matter might find its way into the 


22 


[ SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 

pauper mind and conscience — perhaps a task as trying as you 
could well imagine to the faith and patience of any honest 
clergyman. For, on the very first bench, these were the faces 
on which his eye had to rest, watching whether there was any 
stirring under the stagrAnt surface. 

Right in front of him — probably because he was stone- 
deaf, and it was deemed more edifying to hear nothing at a 
short distance than at a long one — sat “ Old Maxum,” as he 
was familiarly called, his real patronymic remaining a mystery 
to most persons. A fine philological sense discerns in this 
cognomen an indication that the pauper patriarch had once 
been considered pithy and sententious in his speech; but now 
the weight of ninety-five years lay heavy on his tongue as well 
as in his ears, and he sat before the clergyman with protruded 
chin, and munching mouth, and eyes that seemed to look at 
emptiness. 

Next to him sat Poll Fodge — known to the magistracy of 
her county as Mary Higgins — a one-eyed woman, with a 
scarred and seamy face, the most notorious rebel in the work- 
house, said to have once thrown her broth over the master’s 
coat-tails, and who, in spite of nature’s apparent safeguards 
against that contingency, had contributed to the perpetuation 
of the Fodge characteristics in the person of a small boy, who 
was behaving naughtily on one of the back benches. Miss 
Fodge fixed her one sore eye on Mr. Barton with a sort of 
hardy defiance. 

Beyond this member of the softer sex, at the end of the 
bench, sat “ Silly Jim,” a young man afflicted with hydroceph- 
alus, who rolled his head from side to side, and gazed at the 
point of his nose. These were the supporters of Old Maxum 
on his right. 

On his left sat Mr. Fitchett, a tall fellow, who had once 
been a footman in the Oldinport family, and in that giddy 
elevation had enunciated a contemptuous opinion of boiled 
beef, which had been traditionally handed down in Shepper- 
ton as the direct cause of his ultimate reduction to pauper 
commons. His calves were now shrunken, and his hair was 
gray without the aid of powder ; but he still carried his chin 
as if he were conscious of a stiff cravat ; he set his dilapida- 
ted hat on with a knowing inclination towards the left ear ; 
and when he was on field-work, he carted and uncarted the 
manure with a sort of flunkey grace, the ghost of that jaunty 
demeanor with which he used to usher in my lady’s morning 
visitors. The flunkey nature was nowhere completely subdued 


AMOS BARTON. 


23 

but in his stomach, and he still divided society into gentry, 
gentry’s flunkeys, and the people who provided for them. A 
clergyman without a flunkey was an anomaly, belonging to 
neither of these classes. Mr. Fitchett had an irrepressible 
tendency to drowsiness under spiritual instruction, and in the 
recurrent regularity with which he dozed off until he nodded 
and awaked himself, he looked not unlike a piece of mechan- 
ism, ingeniously contrived for measuring the length of Mr. 
Barton’s discourse. 

Perfectly wide-awake, on the contrary, was his left-hand 
neighbor, Mrs. Brick, one of those hard, undying old women, 
to whom age seems to have given a network of wrinkles, as 
a coat of magic armor against the attacks of winters, warm or 
cold. The point on which Mrs. Brick was still sensitive — the 
theme on which you might possibly excite her hope and fear 
— was snuff. It seemed to be an embalming powder, helping 
her soul to do the office of salt. 

And now, eke out an audience of which this front bench- 
ful was a sample with a certain number of refractory children, 
over whom Mr. Spratt, the master of the workhouse, exercised 
an irate surveillance, and I think you will admit that the 
university-taught clergyman, whose office it is to bring home 
the gospel to a handful of such souls, has a sufficiently hard 
task. For, to have any chance of success, short of miraculous 
intervention, he must bring his geographical, chronological, 
exegetical mind pretty nearly to the pauper point of view, or 
of no view ; he must have some approximate conception of 
the mode in which the doctrines that have so much vitality in 
the plenum of his own brain will comport themselves in vacuo 
— that is to say, in a brain that is neither geographical, chrono- 
logical, nor exegetical. It is a flexible imagination that can 
take such a leap as that, and an adroit tongue that can adapt 
its speech to so unfamiliar a position. The Rev. Amos Barton 
had neither that flexible imagination, nor that adroit tongue. 
He talked of Israel and its sins, of chosen vessels, of the 
Paschal lamb, of blood as a medium of reconciliation ; and he 
strove in this way to convey religious truth within reach of 
the Fodge and Fitchett mind. This very morning, the first 
lesson was the twelfth chapter of Exodus, and Mr. Barton’s 
exposition turned on unleavened bread. Nothing in the 
world more suited to the simple understanding than instruc- 
tion through familiar types and symbols ! But there is always 
this danger attending it, that the interest or comprehension of 
your hearers may stop short precisely at the point where your 


24 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


spiritual interpretation begins. And Mr. Barton this morning 
succeeded in carrying the pauper imagination to the dough- 
tub, but unfortunately was not able to carry it upward from 
that well-known object to the unknown truths which it was in- 
tended to shadow forth. 

Alas ! a natural incapacity for teaching, finished by keep- 
ing “ terms ” at Cambridge, where there are able mathemati- 
cians, and butter is sold by the yard, is not apparently the 
medium through which Christian doctrine will distill as web 
come dew on withered souls. 

And so, while the sleet outside was turning to unques- 
tionable snow, and the stony dining-room looked darker and 
drearier, and Mr. Fitchett was nodding his lowest, and Mr. 
Spratt was boxing the boys’ ears with a constant rmforzando^ 
as he felt more keenly the approach of dinner-time, Mr. Bar- 
ton wound up his exhortation with something of the February 
chill at his heart as well as his feet. Mr. Fitchett, throughly 
roused, now the instruction was at an end, obsequiously and 
gracefully advanced to help Mr. Barton in putting on his 
cape, while Mrs. Brick rubbed her withered forefinger round 
and round her little shoe-shaped snuff-box, vainly seeking for 
the fraction of a pinch. I can’t help thinking that if Mr. Bar- 
ton had shaken into that little box a small portion of Scotch 
high-dried, he might have produced something more like an 
amiable emotion in Mrs. Brick’s mind than anything she had 
felt under his morning’s exposition of the unleavened bread. 
But our good Amos labored under a deficiency of small tact 
as well as of small cash ; and when he observed the action of 
the old women’s forefinger, he said, in his brusque way, “ So 
your snuff is all gone, eh ? ” 

Mrs. Brick’s eyes twinkled with the visionary hope that 
the parson might be intending to replenish her box, at least 
mediately, through the present of a small copper. 

“ Ah, well ! you’ll soon be going where there is no more 
snuff. You’ll be in need of mercy then. You must remem- 
ber that you may have to seek for mercy and not find it, just 
as you’re seeking for snuff.” 

At the first sentence of this admonition, the twinkle sub- 
sided from Mrs. Brick’s eyes. The lid of her box went 
“click ! ” and her heart was shut up at the same moment. 

But now Mr. Barton’s attention was called by Mr. 
Spratt, who was dragging a small and unwilling boy from 
the rear. Mr. Spratt was a small-featured, small-statured 
man, with a remarkable power of language, mitigated by hes- 


AMOS BAR TO AT. 


25 

itation, who piqued himself on expressing unexceptionable 
sentiments in unexceptionable language on all occasions. 

“ Mr. Barton, sir — aw — aw — excuse my trespassing on 
your time — aw — to beg that you will administer a rebuke to 
this boy : he is — aw — aw — most inveterate in ill-behavior 
during service time.” 

The inveterate culprit was a boy of seven, vainly contend 
ing against “ candles” at his nose by feeble sniffing. But no' 
sooner had Mr. Spratt uttered his impeachment, than Miss 
Fodge rushed forward and placed herself between Mr. Barton 
and the accused. 

“ That’s my child. Muster Barton,” she exclaimed, further 
manifesting her maternal instincts by applying her apron to 
her offspring’s nose. “ He’s al’ys a-findin’ faut wi’ him, and 
a-pOLindin* him for nothin’. Let him goo an’ eat his roost 
goose as is a-smellin’ up in our noses while we’re a-swallering 
them greasy broth, and let my boy alooan.” 

Mr. Spratt’s small eyes flashed, and he was in danger of 
uttering sentiments not unexceptionable before the clergy- 
man ; but Mr. Barton, foreseeing that a prolongation of this 
episode would not be to edification, said, “ Silence ! ” in his 
severest tones. 

“ Let me hear no abuse. Your boy is not likely to behave 
well, if you set him the example of being saucy.” Then 
stooping down to Master Fodge, and taking him by the 
shoulder, “ Do you like being beaten ? ” 

“ No-a.” 

“ Then what a silly boy you are to be naughty. If you 
were not naughty, you wouldn’t be beaten. But if you are 
naughty, God will be angry, as well as Mr. Spratt ; and God 
can burn you forever. That will be worse than being beaten.” 

Master Fodge’s countenance was neither affirmative nor 
negative of this proposition. 

“ But,” continued Mr. Barton, “ if you will be a good boy, 
God will love you, and you will grow up to be a good man. 
Now, let me hear next Thursday that you have been a good 
boy.” 

Master Fodge had no distinct vision of the benefit that 
would accrue to him from this change of courses. But Mr. 
Barton, being aware that Miss Fodge had touched on a deli- 
cate subject in alluding to the roast goose, was determined 
to witness no more polemics between her and Mr. Spratt ] 
so, saying good-morning to the latter, he hastily left the Col- 
lege. 


26 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


The snow was falling in thicker and thicker flakes, and al- 
ready the vicarage-garden was cloaked in white as he passed 
through the gate. Mrs. Barton heard him open the door, and 
ran out of the sitting-room to meet him. 

“ I’m afraid your feet are very wet, dear. What a terrible 
morning ! Let me take your hat. Your slippers are at the 
fire.” 

Mr. Barton was feeling a little cold and cross. It is diffi- 
cult, when you have been doing disagreeable duties, without 
praise, on a snowy day, to attend to the very minor morals. 
So he showed no recognition of Milly’s attentions, but simply 
said, “ Fetch me my dressing-gown, will you } ” 

“ It is down, dear. I thought you wouldn’t go into the 
study, because you said you would letter and number the 
books for the Lending Library. Patty and I have been cov- 
ering them, and they are all ready in the sitting-room.” 

“ Oh, I can’t do those this morning,” said Mr. Barton, as 
he took off his boots and put his feet into the slippers Milly 
had brought him ; “ you must put them away into the parlor.” 

The sitting-room was also the day nursery and schoolroom ; 
and while mamma’s back was turned, Dickey, the second boy, 
had insisted on superseding Chubby in the guidance of a head- 
less horse, of the red-wafered species, which she was drawing 
round the room, so that when papa opened the door Chubby 
was giving tongue energetically. 

“ Milly, some of these children must go away. I want to 
be quiet.” 

“ Yes, dear. Hush, Chubby ; go with Patty, and see what 
Nanny is getting for our dinner. Now Fred and Sophy and 
Dickey, help me to carry these books into the parlor. There 
are three for Dickey. Carry them steadily.” 

Papa meanwhile settled himself in his easy-chair, and took 
up a work on Episcopacy, which he had from the Clerical 
Book Society ; thinking he would finish it, and return it this 
afternoon, as he was going to the Clerical Meeting at Milby 
Vicarage, where the Book Society had its headquarters. 

The Clerical Meetings and Book Society, which had been 
founded some eight or ^n months, had had a noticeable effect 
on the Rev. Amos Barton. When he first came to Shepper- 
ton he was simply an evangelical clergyman, whose Christian 
experiences had commenced under the teaching of the Rev. 
Mr. Johns, of Gun Street Chapel, and had been consolidated 
at Cambridge under the influence of Mr, Simeon. John New- 
ton and Thomas Scott were his doctrinal ideals ; he would 


JMOS BARTON. 


27 


have taken in the “ Christian Observer’^ and the “ Record,” 
if he could have afforded it ; his anecdotes were chiefly of the 
pious-jocose kind, current in Dissenting circles ; and he 
thought an Episcopalian Establishment unobjectionable. 

But by this time the effect of the Tractarian agitation was 
beginning to be felt in backward provincial regions, and the 
Tractarian satire on the Low-Church party was beginning to 
tell even on those who disavowed or resisted Tractarian doc- 
trines. The vibration of an intellectual movement was felt 
from the golden head to the miry toes of the Establishment ; 
and so it came to pass that, in the district round Milby, the 
market-town close to Shepperton, the clergy had agreed to 
have a clerical meeting every month, wherein they would ex- 
ercise their intellects by discussing theological and ecclesiasti- 
cal questions, and cement their brotherly love by discussing a 
good dinner. A Book Society naturally suggested itself as 
an adjunct of this agreeable plan ; and thus, you perceive, 
there was provision made for ample friction of the clerical 
mind. 

Now, the Rev. Amos Barton was one of those men who 
have a decided will and opinion of their own ; he held him- 
self bolt upright, and had no self-distrust. He would march 
very determinedly along the road he thought best ; but then 
it was wonderfully easy to convince him which was the best 
road. And so a very little unwonted reading and unwonted 
discussion made him see that an Episcopalian Establishment 
was much more than unobjectionable, and on many other 
points he began to feel that he held opinions a little too far- 
sighted and profound to be crudely and suddenly communi- 
cated to ordinary minds. He was like an onion that has been 
rubbed with spices ; the strong original odor was blended with 
something new and f( reign. The Low-Church onion still of- 
fended refined High-Church nostrils, and the new spice was 
unwelcome to the palate of the genuine onion-eater. 

We will not accompany him to the Clerical Meeting to- 
day, because we shall probably want to go thither some day 
when he will be absent. And just now I am bent on introduc- 
ing you to Mr. Bridmain and the Countess of Czerlaski, with 
whom Mr. and Mrs. Barton are invited to dine to-morrow. 


28 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


CHAPTER III. 

Outside, the moon is shedding its cold light on the cold 
snow, and the white-bearded fir-trees round Camp Villa are 
casting a blue shadow across the white ground, while the 
Rev. Amos Barton and his wife are audibly crushing the 
crisp snow beneath their feet, as, about seven o’clock on Fri- 
day evening, they approached the door of the above-named de- 
sirable country residence, containing dining, breakfast, and 
drawing rooms, etc., situated only half a mile from the mar- 
ket-town of Milby. 

Inside, there is a bright fire in the drawing-room, casting a 
pleasant but uncertain light on the delicate silk dress of a 
lady who is reclining behind a screen in the corner of the 
sofa, and allowing you to discern that the hair of the gentle- 
man who is seated in the arm-chair opposite, with a newspa- 
per over his knees, is becoming decidedly gray. A little 
“ King Charles,” a crimson ribbon round his neck, who 
has been lying curled up in the very middle of the hearth rug, 
has just discovered that that zone is'too hot for him, and is 
jumping on the sofa, evidently with the intention of accom- 
modating his person on the silk gown. On the table there 
are two wax-candles, which will be lighted as soon as the ex- 
pected knock is heard at the door. 

The knock is heard, the candles are lighted, and presently 
Mr. and Mrs. Barton are ushered in — Mr, Barton erect and 
clerical, in a faultless tie and shining cranium; Mrs. Barton 
graceful in a newly-turned black silk. 

“Now this is charming of you,” said the Countess Czer- 
laski, advancing to meet them, and embracing Milly with 
careful elegance. “ I am really ashamed of my selfishness in 
asking my friends to come and see me in this frightful weath- 
er.” Then, giving her hand to Amos, “ And you, Mr. Barton, 
whose time is so precious ! But I am doing a good deed in 
drawing you away from your labors. I have a plot to pre- 
vent you from martyrizing yourself.” 

While this greeting was going forward, Mr. Bridmain and 
Jet the spaniel looked on with the air of actors who had no 
idea of by-play. Mr. Bridmain, a stiff and rather thick-set 
man, gave his welcome with a labored cordiality. It was as- 
tonishing how very little he resembled his beautiful sister. 


/MOS BARTON, 


29 

For the Countess Czerlaski was undeniably beautiful. As 
she seated herself by Mrs. Barton on the sofa, Milly’s eyes, in- 
deed, rested — must it be confessed ? — chiefly on the details 
of the tasteful dress, the rich silk of a pinkish lilac hue (the 
Countess always wore delicate colors in an evening), the black 
lace pelerine, and the black lace veil falling at the back of 
the small, closely-braided head. For Milly had one weakness 
— don’t love her any the less for it, it was a pretty woman’s 
weakness — she was fond of dress ; and often, when she was 
making up-her own economical millinery, she had romantic 
visions how nice it would be to put on really handsome, 
stylish things — to have very stiff balloon sleeves,ffor example, 
without which a woman’s dress w^as naught in those days. 
You and I, too, reader, have our weakness, have we not ? 
which makes us think foolish things now and then. Perhaps 
it may lie in an excessive admiration for small hands and 
feet, a tall, lithe figure, large, dark eyes, and dark silken 
braided hair. All these the Countess possessed, and she had, 
moreover, a delicately-formed nose, the least bit curved, and 
a clear brunette complexion. Her mouth, it must be admit- 
ted, receded too much from her nose and chin, and to a pro- 
phetic eye threatened “ nut-crackers ” in advanced age. But 
by the light of fire and wax candles that age seemed very far 
off indeed, and you would have said that the Countess was 
not more than thirty. 

Look at tlie two women on the sofa together ! The large, 
fair, mild-eyed Milly is timid even in friendship ; it is not 
easy to her to speak of the affection of which her heart is full. 
The lithe, dark, thin-lipped Countess is racking her small 
brain for caressing w^orcls and charming exaggerations. 

“ And how are all the cherubs at home ? ” said the Coun- 
tess, stooping to pick up Jet, and without waiting for an an- 
swer. “ I have been kept in-doors by a cold ever since Sun- 
day, or I should not have rested without seeing you. What 
have you done w'ith those wretched singers, Mr. Barton ? ” 

“ Oh we have got a new choir together, which will go on 
very well with a little practice. I was quite determined that 
the old set of singers should be dismissed. I had given or- 
ders that they should not sing the wedding psalm, as they 
call it, again, to make a new-married couple look ridiculous, 
and they sang it in defiance of me. I could put them into 
the Ecclesiastical Court, if I chose for to do so, for lifting up 
their voices in church in opposition to the clergyman.” 

“ And a most wholesome discipline that would be, said 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


30 

the Countess ; “ indeed, you are too patient and forbearing, 
Mr. Barton. For my part / lose my temper when I see how 
far you are from being appreciated in that miserable Shep- 
perton.” 

If, as is probable, Mr. Barton felt at a loss what to say in 
reply to the insinuated compliment, it was a relief to him that 
dinner was announced just then, and that he had to offer his 
arm to the Countess. 

As Mr. Bridmain w^as leading Mrs. Barton to the dining- 
room, he observed, “ The weather is very severe.” 

“ Very, indeed,” said Milly. 

Mr. Bridmain studied conversation as an art. To ladies 
he spoke of the weather, and was accustomed to consider it 
under three points of view : as a question of climate in gen- 
eral, comparing England with other countries in this respect \ 
as a personal question inquiring how it affected his lady in- 
terlocutor in particular; and as a question of probabilities, 
discussing whether there would be a change or a continuance 
of the present atmospheric conditions. To gentlemen he 
talked politics, and he read two daily papers expressly to 
qualify himself for this function. Mr. Barton thought him a 
man of considerable political information, but not of lively 
parts. 

“ And so you are always to hold your Clerical Meetings 
at Mr. Ely’s ? ” said the Countess, between her spoonfuls of 
soup. (The soup was a little over-spiced. Mrs. Short of 
Camp Villa, who was in the habit of letting her best apart- 
ments, gave only moderate wages to her cook.) 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Barton ; “ Milby is a central place, and 
there are many conveniences in having only one point of 
meeting.” 

“ Well,” continued the Countess, “every one seems to 
agree in giving the precedence to Mr. Ely. For my part, I 
can not admire him. His preaching is too cold for me. It 
has no fervor — no heart. I often say to my brother, it is a 
great comfort to me that Shepperton Church is not too far 
off for us to go to ; don’t I, Edmund } ” 

“ Yes,” answered Mr. Bridmain ; “ they show us into such 
a bad pew at Milby — just where there is a draught from that 
door. I caught a stiff neck the first time I went there.” 

“ Oh, it is the cold in the pulpit that affects me, not the 
cold in the pew. I was writing to my friend Lady Porter this 
morning, and telling her all about my feelings. She and I 
think alike on such matters. She is most anxious that when 


AMOS BARTON. 


31 


Sir William has an opportunity of giving away the living at 
their place, Dippley, they should have a thoroughly zealous, 
clever man there. I have been describing a certain friend of 
mine to her, who, I think, would be just to her mind. And 
there is such a pretty rectory, Milly ; shouldn’t I like to see 
you the mistress of it ? ” 

Milly smiled and blushed slightly. The Rev. Amos 
blushed very red, and gave a little embarrassed laugh — he 
could rarely keep his muscles within the limits of a smile. 

At this moment John, the man-servant, approached Mrs. 
Barton with a gravy-tureen, and also with a slight odor of the 
stable, which usually adhered to him throughout his indoor 
functions. John was rather nervous ; and the Countess 
happening to speak to him at this inopportune moment, the 
tureen slipped and emptied itself on Mrs. Barton’s newly 
turned black silk. 

“ Oh, horror ! Tell Alice to come directly and rub Mrs. 
Barton’s dress,” said the Countess to the trembling John, 
carefully abstaining from approaching the gravy-sprinkled 
spot on the floor with her own lilac silk. But Mr. Bridmain, 
who had a strictly private interest in silks, good-naturedly 
jumped up and applied his napkin at once to Mrs. Barton’s 
gown. 

Milly felt a little inward anguish, but no ill-temper, and 
tried to make light of the matter for the sake of John as well 
as others. The Countess felt inwardly thankful that her own 
delicate silk had escaped, but threw out lavish interjections 
of distress and indignation. 

“ Dear saint that you are,” she said, when Milly laughed, 
and suggested that as her silk was not very glossy to begin 
with, the dim patch would not be much seen ; “ you don’t 
mind about these things, I know. Just the same sort of thing 
happened to me at the Princess Wengstein’s one day, on a 
pink satin. I was in an agony. But you are so indifferent 
to dress ; and well you may be. It is you who make dress 
pretty, and not dress that makes you pretty.” 

Alice, the buxom lady’s-maid, wearing a much better dress 
than Mrs. Barton’s, now appeared to take Mr. Bridmain’s 
place in retrieving the mischief, and after a great amount of 
supplementary rubbing, composure was restored, and the 
business of dining was continued. 

When John was recounting his accident to the cook in the 
kitchen, he observed, Mrs. Barton’s a hamable woman ; I’d a 
deal sooner ha’ throwed the gravy o’er the Countess’s fine 


32 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


govvnd. But laws ! what tantrums she’d ha’ been in arter the 
visitors was gone.” 

“You’d a deal sooner not ha’ throwed it down at all, I 
should think,” responded the unsympathetic cook, to whom 
John did not make love. “ Who d’you think’s to make gravy 
anuff, if you’re to baste people’s gownds wi’ it ” 

“Well,” suggested John, humbly, “you should wet the 
bottom of the duree a bit, to hold it from slippin’.” 

“Wet your granny ! ” returned the cook ; a retort which 
she probably regarded in the light of a reductio ad absurdum, 
and which in fact reduced John to silence. 

Later on in the evening, while John was removing the tea- 
things from the drawing room and brushing the crumbs from 
the table-cloth with an accompanying hiss, such as he was wont 
to encourage himself with in rubbing down Mr. Bridmain’s 
horse, the Rev. Amos Barton drew from his pocket a thin, 
green-covered pamphlet, and, presenting it to the Countess, 
said, 

“ You were pleased, I think, with my sermon on Christmas 
Day. It has been printed in ‘The Pulpit,’ and I thought you 
might like a copy.” 

“That indeed I shall. I shall quite value the opportunity 
of reading that sermon. There was such depth in it ! — such 
argument ! It was not a sermon to be heard only once. I 
am delighted that it should become generally known, as it 
will be, now it is printed in ‘ The Pulpit. ’ ” 

“Yes,” said Milly, innocently, “I was so pleased with the 
editor’s letter.” And she drew out her little pocket-book, 
where she carefully treasured the editorial autograph, while 
Mr. Barton laughed and blushed, and said, “ Nonsense, 
Milly ! ” 

“ You see,” she said, giving the letter to the Countess, “ I 
am very proud of the praise my husband gets.” 

The sermon in question, by the bye, was an extremely argu- 
mentative one on the Incarnation which, as it was preached 
to a congregation not one of whom had any doubt of that 
doctrine, and to whom the Socinians therein confuted were 
as unknown as the Arimaspians, was exceedingly well adapt- 
ed to trouble and confuse the Sheppertonian mind. 

“ Ah,” said the Countess, returning the editor’s letter, “ he 
may well say he will be glad of other sermons from the same 
source.” But I would rather you should publish your sermons 
in an independent volume, Mr. Barton ; it would be so desip 
able to have them in that shape. For instance, I could send 


AMOS BARTON. 


33 

a copy to the Dean of Radborough. And there is Lord Blar- 
ney, whom I knew before he was chancellor. I was a special 
favorite of his, and you can’t think what sweet things he used 
to say to me. I shall not resist the temptation to write to 
him one of these days sans fa^ 07 i, and tell him how he ought 
to dispose of the next vacant living in his gift.” 

Whether Jet the spaniel, being a much more knowing dog 
than was suspected, wished to express his disapproval of the 
Countess’s last speech, as not accordant with his ideas of wis- 
dom and veracity, I cannot say ; but at this moment he jumped 
off her lap, and, turning his back upon her, placed one 
paw on the fender, and held the other up to warm, as if affect- 
ing to abstract himself from the current of conversation. 

But now Mr. Bridmain brought out the chess-board, and 
Mr. Barton accepted his challenge to play a game, with im- 
mense satisfaction. The Rev. Amos was very fond of chess, 
as most people are who can continue through many years to 
create interesting vicissitudes in the game, by taking long-med- 
itated moves with their knights, and subsequently discover- 
ing that they have thereby exposed their queen. 

Chess is a .silent game ; and the Countess’s chat with 
Milly is in quite an undertone — probably relating to women’s 
matters that it would be impertinent for us to listen to ; so 
we will leave Camp Villa and proceed to Milby Vicarage, 
where Mr. Farquhar has sat out two other guests with whom 
he has been dining at Mr. Ely’s and is now rather wearying 
that reverend gentleman by his protracted small-talk. 

Mr. Ely was a tall, dark-haired, distinguished-looking man 
of three-and-thirty. By the laity of Milby and its neighbor- 
hood he was regarded as a man of quite remarkable powers 
and learning, who must make a considerable sensation in Lon- 
don pulpits and drawing-rooms on his occasional visits to the 
metropolis ; and by his brother clergy he was regarded as a 
discreet and agreeable fellow. Mr. Ely never got into a warm 
discussion ; he suggested what might be thought but rarely 
said what he thought himself ; he never let either men or 
women see that he was laughing at them, and he never gave 
any one an opportunity of laughing at hmi. In one thing 
only he was injudicious. He parted his dark wavy hair down 
the middle ; and as his head was rather flat than otherwise, 
that style of coiffure was not advantageous to him. 

Mr.' Farquhar, though not a parishioner of Mr. Ely’s, was 
one of his warmest admirers, and thought he would make an 
unexceptionable son-in-law, in spite of his being of no particu- 


34 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


lar “ family.” Mr. Farquhar was susceptible on the point of 
blood ” — his own circulating fluid, which animated a short 
and somewhat flabby person, being, he considered, of very 
superior quality. 

“ By the bye,” he said, with a certain pomposity counter- 
acted by a lisp, “ what on ath Barton makth of himthelf, about 
that Bridmain and the Counteth, ath she callth herthelf. After 
you were gone the other evening, Mithith Farquhar wath 
telling him the general opinion about them in the neighbor- 
hood, and he got quite red and angry. Bleth your thoul, he 
believth the whole thtory about her Polish huthband and hith 
wonderful ethcapeth ; and ath for her — why, he thinkth her 
perfection, a woman of moth refined feelingth, and no end of 
fhiuff.” 

Mr. Ely smiled. “ Some people would say our friend Bar 
ton was not the best judge of refinement. Perhaps the lady 
flatters him a little, and we men are susceptible. She goes 
to Shepperton Church every Sunday — drawn there, let us 
suppose, by Mr. Barton’s eloquence.” 

“ Pthaw,” said Mr. Farquhar : “now, to my mind, you have 
only to look at that woman to thee what she ith — ^throwing 
her eyth about when she comth into church, and drething in 
a wny to attract attention. I should thay, she’th tired of her 
brother Bridmain, and looking out for another brother with a 
thtronger family likeneth. Mithith Farquhar ith very fond 
of Mithith Barton, and ith quite dithtrethed that she should 
athothiate with thuch a woman, tho she attacked him on 
the ihubject purpothly. But I tell her it’th of no uthe, 
with a pig-headed fellow like him. Barton’th well-meaning 
enough, but tho contheited. I’ve left off giving him my ad- 
vithe.” 

Mr. Ely smiled inwardly, and said to himself, “ What a 
punishment ! ” But to Mr. Farquhar he said, “ Barton might 
be more judicious, it must be confessed.” He was getting 
tired, and did not want to develop the subject. 

“ Why, nobody vithit-th them but the Bartonth,” contin- 
ued Mr. Farquhar, “ and why should thuch people come here, 
unleth they had particular reathonth for preferring a neigh- 
borhood where they are not known ? Pooh ! it lookth iTad 
on the very fathe of it. You called on them, now ; how did 
you find them 1 ” 

“ Oh !— Mr. Bridmain strikes me as a common sort of man 
who is making an effort to seem wise and well bred. He 
comes down on one tremendously with political information 


AMOS BARTON. 


35 


and seems knowing about the King of the French. The Coun- 
tess is certainly a handsome woman, but she puts on the grand 
air a little too powerfully. Woodcock was immensely taken 
with her, and insised on his wife's calling on her and asking 
her to dinner ; but I think Mrs. Woodcock turned restive 
after the first visit, and wouldn’t invite her again.” 

“ Ha, ha ! Woodcock hath alwayth a thoft place in hith 
heart for a pretty fathe. It’th odd how he came to marry 
that plain woman, and no fortune either.” 

“ Mysteries of the tender passion,” said Mr. Ely. “ I am 
not initiated yet, you know.” 

Here Mr. Farquhar’s carriage was announced, and as we 
have not found his conversation particularly brilliant under 
the stimulus of Mr. Ely’s exceptional presence, we will not ac- 
company him home to the less exciting atmosphere of domes- 
tic life. 

Mr. Ely threw himself with a sense of relief into his easiest 
ch^ir, set his feet on the hobs, and in this attitude of bachelor 
enjoyment began to read Bishop Jebb’s Memoirs 


CHAPTER IV. 

I AM by no means sure that if the good people of Milby 
had known the truth about the Countess Czerlaski, they 
would not have been considerably disappointed to find that 
it was very far from being as bad as they imagined. Nice 
distinctions are troublesome. It is so much easier to say that 
a thing is black, than to discriminate the particular shade of 
brown, blue, or green, to which it really belongs. It is so 
much easier to make up your mind that your neighbor is good 
for nothing, than to enter into all the circumstances that would 
oblige you to modify that opinion. 

Besides, think of all the virtuous declamation, all the pene- 
trating observations, which had been built up entirely on 
the fundamental position that the Countess was a very ob- 
jectionable person indeed, and which would be utterly over- 
turned and nullified by the destruction of that premiss. Mrs. 
Phipps, the banker’s wife, and Mrs. Landor, the attorney’s 
wife, had invested part of their reputation for acuteness in the 
supposition that Mr. Bridmain was not the Countess’s brother. 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


36 

Moreover, Miss Phipps was conscious that if the Count- 
ess was not a disreputable person, she, Miss Phipps, had no 
compensating superiority in virtue to set against the other 
lady's manifest superiority in personal charms. Miss Phipp’s 
stumpy figure and unsuccessful attire, instead of looking 
down from a mount of virtue with an aureole round its head, 
would then be seen on the same level and in the same light 
as the Countess Czerlaski’s Diana-like form and well-chosen 
drapery. Miss Phipps, for her part, didn’t like dressing for 
effect — she had always avoided that style of appearance which 
was calculated to create a sensation. 

Then what amusing innuendoes of the Milby gentlemen 
over their wine would have been entirely frustrated and re- 
duced to naught, if you had told them that the Countess 
had really been guilty of no misdemeanors which demanded 
her exclusion from strictly respectable society ; that her 
husband had been the veritable Count Czerlaski, who had 
had wonderful escapes, as she said, and who, as she 
say, but as was said in certain circulars once folded by her 
fair hands, had subsequently given dancing lessons in the me- 
tropolis ; that Mr. Bridmain was neither more nor less than her 
half-brother, who, by unimpeached integrity and industry, 
had won a partnership in a silk-manufactory, and thereby a 
moderate fortune, that enabled him to retire, as you see, to 
study politics, the weather, and the art of conversation at his 
leisure. Mr. Bridmain, in fact, quadragenarian bachelor as 
he was, felt extremely well pleased to receive his sister in 
her widowhood, and to shine in the reflected light of her 
beauty and title. Every man who is not a monster, a mathe- 
matician, or a mad philosopher, is the slave of some woman 
or other. Mr. Bridmain had put his neck under the yoke of 
his handsome sister, and though his soul was a very little 
one — of the smallest description indeed — he would not have 
ventured to call it his own. He might be slightly recalci- 
trant now and then, as is the habit of long-eared pachyderms, 
under the thong of the fair Countess’s tongue ; but there 
seemed little probability that he would ever get his neck 
loose. Still, a bachelor’s heart is an outlying fortress that 
some fair enemy may any day take either by storm or strata- 
gem \ and there was always the possibility that Mr. Bridmain’s 
first nuptials might occur before the Countess was quite sure 
of her second. As it was, however, he submitted to all his 
sister’s caprices, never grumbled because her dress and her 
maid formed a considerable item beyond her own little income 


AMOS BARTON. 


37 

of sixty pounds per annum, and consented to lead with her 
a migratory life, as personages on the debatable ground 
between aristocracy and commonalty, instead of settling in 
some spot where his five hundred a-year might have won 
him the definite dignity of a parochial magnate. 

The Countess had her views in choosing a quiet provin- 
cial place like Milby. After three years of widowhood, she 
had brought her feelings to contemplate giving a successor to 
her lamented Czerlaski, whose fine whiskers, fine air, and 
romantic fortunes had won her heart ten years ago, when, as 
pretty Caroline Bridmain, in full bloom of five-and-twenty, she 
was governess to Lady Porter’s daughters, whom he initiated 
into the mysteries of the pas de basque and the Lancers^ 
quadrilles. She had had seven years of sufficiently happy 
matrimony with Czerlaski, who had taken her to Paris and 
Germany, and introduced her there to many of his old friends 
with large titles and small fortunes. So that the fair Caro- 
line had had considerable experience of life, and had gath- 
ered therefrom, not, indeed, any very ripe and comprehensive 
wisdom, but much external polish, and certain practical con- 
clusions of a very decided kind. One of these conclusions 
was, that there were things more solid in life than fine whis- 
kers and a title, and that, in accepting a second husband, 
she would regard these items as ^uite subordinate to a car- 
riage and a settlement. Now, she had ascertained, by tenta- 
tive residences, that the kind of bite she was angling for was 
difficult to be met with at watering-places, which were already 
preoccupied with abundance of angling beauties, and were 
chiefly stocked with men whose whiskers might be dyed, and 
whose incomes were still more problematic ; so she had de- 
termined on trying a neighborhood where people were ex- 
tremely well acquainted with each other’s affairs, and where 
the women were mostly ill-dressed and ugly. Mr. Bridmain’s 
slow brain had adopted his sister's views, and it seemed to 
him that a woman so handsome and distinguished as the 
Countess must certainly make a match that might lift himself 
into the region of county celebrities,, and give him at }east a 
sort of cousinship to the quarter-sessions. 

All this, which was the simple truth, woqld have seemed 
extremely flat to the gossips of Milby, who had made up their 
minds to something much more exciting. There was nothing 
here so very detestable* It is true, the Countess was a little 
vain, a little ambitious, a little selfish, a little shallow and 
frivolous, a little given to white jjes, Bpt who considers such 


SCENES OP CJ.Aaix^AL LIFE. 


38 

slight blemishes, such moral pimples as these, disqualifications 
for entering into the most respectable society ! Indeed, the 
severest ladies in Milby would have been perfectly aware that 
these characteristics would have created no wide distinction 
between the Countess Czerlaski and themselves ; and since 
it was clear there was a wide distinction— why, it must lie in 
the possession of some vices from which they were undeniably 
free. 

Hence it came to pass that Milby respectability refused to 
recognize the Countess Czerlaski, in spite of her assiduous 
church-going, and the deep disgust she was known to have 
expressed at the extreme paucity of the congregations on Ash- 
Wednesdays. So she began to feel that she had miscalcu- 
lated the advantages of a neighborhood where people are 
well acquainted with each other’s private affairs. Under 
these circumstances, you will imagine how welcome was the 
perfect credence and admiration she met with from Mr. and 
Mrs. Barton. She had been especially irritated by Mr. Ely’s 
behavior to her ; she felt sure that he was not in the least 
struck with her beauty, that he quizzed her conversation, and 
that he spoke of her with a sneer. A woman always knows 
where she is utterly powerless, and shuns a coldly satirical 
eye as she would shun a Gorgon. And she was especially ! 
eager for clerical notice an^d friendship, not merely because i 
that is quite the most respectable countenance to be obtained 
in society, but because she really cared about' religious mat- 
ters, and had an uneasy sense that she was not altogether 
safe in that quarter. She had serious intentions of becoming 
quite pious — without any reserve — when she had once got her 
carriage and settlement. Let us do this one sly trick, says 
Ulysses to Neoptolemus, and we will be perfectly honest ever 
after — 

dAA’ r^Eb yap rot xrrpxa oCx7)q Xa^siv^ 

ToXfxa' dixaioi d’ ahOi<; ixtpaooujxtOa. 

The Countess did not quote Sophocles, but she said to 
herself, “ Only this little bit of pretence and vanity, and then 
I will be quite good, and make myself quite safe for another 
world. 

And as she had by no means such fine taste and insight in 
theological teaching as in costume, the Rev. Amos Barton 
seemed to her a man not only of learning — that is always un- 
derstood with a clergyman — but of much power as a spiritual 
director. As for Milly, the Countess really loved her as well 


AAIOS BAA^TOAT, 


39 

a? the preoccupied state of her affections would allow. For 
you have already perceived that there was one being to whom 
the Countess was absorbingly devoted, and to whose desires 
she made everything else subservient — namely, Caroline Czer- 
laski, nee Bridmain. 

Thus there was really not much affectation in her sweet 
speeches and attentions to Mr. and Mrs. Barton. Still their 
friendship by no means adequately represented the object she 
had in view when she came to Milby, and it had been for 
some time clear to her that she must suggest a new change 
of residence to her brother. 

The thing we look forward to often comes to pass, but 
never precisely in the way we have imagined to ourselves. 
The Countess did actually leave Camp Villa before many 
months were past, but under circumstances which had not at 
all entered into her contemplation. 


CHAPTER V. 

The Rev. Amos Barton, whose sad fortunes I have under- 
taken to relate, was, you perceive, in no respect an ideal or 
exceptional character ; and perhaps I am doing a bold thing 
to bespeak your sympathy on behalf of a man who was so 
very far from remarkable, — a man whose virtues were not 
heroic, and who had no undetected crime within his breast ; 
who had not the slightest mystery hanging about him, but 
was palpably and unmistakably commonplace ; who was not 
even in love, but had had that complaint favorably many 
years ago. “An utterly uninteresting character!” I think 
I hear a lady reader exclaim — Mrs. Farthingale, for example, 
who prefers the ideal in fiction ; to whom tragedy means er- 
mine tippets, adultery, and murder ; and comedy, the adven- 
tures of some personage who is quite a “ character.” 

But, my dear madam, it is so very large a majority of your 
fellow-countrymen that are of this insignificant stamp. At 
least eighty out of a hundred of your adult male fellow-Brit- 
ons returned in the last census are neither extraordinarily silly, 
nor extraordinarily wicked, nor extraordinarily wise ; their 
eyes are neither deep and liquid with sentiment, nor spark- 
ling witli suppressed witticisms ; they have probably had 
no hairbreadth escapes or thrilling adventures; their brains 


40 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


are certainly not pregnant with genius, and their passions 
have not manifested themselves at all after the fashion of a 
volcano. They are simply men of conplexions more or less 
muddy, whose conversation is more or less bald and disjoint- 
ed. Yet these commonplace people — many of then — bear a 
conscience, and have felt the sublime prompting to do the 
painful right ; they have their unspoken sorrows and their 
sacred joys; their hearts have perhaps gone out towards 
their first-born, and they have mourned over the irreclaim- 
able dead. Nay, is there not a pathos in their very insignific- 
ance — in our comparison of their dim and narrow existence 
with the glorious possibilities of that human nature which they 
share. 

Depend upon it, you would gain unspeakably if you would 
learn with me to see some of the poetry and the pathos, the 
tragedy and the comedy, lying in the experience of a human 
soul that looks out through dull gray eyes, and that speaks 
in a voice of quite ordinary tones. In that case, I should have 
no fear of your not caring to know what further, befell the 
Rev. Amos Barton, or of your thinking the homely details I 
have to tell at all beneath your attention. As it is, you can, 
if you please, decline to pursue my story further ; and you 
will easily find reading more to your taste, since I learn from 
the newspapers that many remarkable novels, full of striking 
situations, thrilling incidents, and eloquent writing, have ap- 
peared Only within the last season. 

Meanwhile, readers who have begun to feel an interest in 
the Rev. Amos Barton and his wife, will be glad to learn that 
Mr. Oldinport lent the twenty pounds. But twenty pounds 
are soon exhausted when twelve are due as back payment to 
the butcher, and when the possession of eight extra sover- 
eigns in February weatlier is an irresistible temptation to 
order a new greatcoat. And though Mr. Bridmain so far de- 
parted from the necessary economy entailed on him by the 
Countess’s elegant toilette and expensive maid, as to choose 
a handsome black silk, stiff, as his experienced eye discerned 
with the genuine strength of its own texture, and not with the 
factitious strength of gum, and present it to Mrs. Barton, in 
retrieval of the accident that had occurred at his table, yet, 
dear me — as every husband has heard — what is the present 
of a gown when you are deficiently furnished with the et- 
ceteras of apparel, and when, moreover, there are six children 
whose wear and tear of clothes is something incredible to the 
Kon-maternal mind 


AMOS B ARTOIS. 


4f 

Indeed, the equation of income and expenditure was offer- 
ing new^ and constantly accumulating difficulties to Mr. and 
Mrs. Barton j for shortly after the birth of little Walter, 
Milly’s aunt, who had lived with her ever since her marriage, 
had withdrawn herself, her furniture, and her yearly income, 
to the household of another niece ; prompted to that step, 
very probably, by a slight “ tiff ” with the Rev. Amos, which 
occurred while Milly was up stairs, and proved one too many 
for the elderly lady’s patience and magnanimity. Mr. Bar- 
ton’s temper was a little warm, but, on the other hand, elderly 
maiden ladies are known to be susceptible ; so w^e will not 
suppose that all the blame lay on his side — the less so, as he 
had every motive for huihoring an inmate whose presence 
kept the wolf from the door. It was now nearly a year since 
Miss Jackson’s departure, and, to a fine ear, the howl of the 
wolf was audibly approaching. 

It was a sad thing, too, that when the last snow had 
melted, when the purple and yellow crocuses were coming up 
in the garden, and the old church was already half pulled 
down, Milly had an illness which made her lips look pale and 
rendered it absolutely necessary that she should not exert 
herself for some time. Mr. Brand, the Shepperton doctor so 
obnoxious to Mr. Pilgrim, ordered her to drink port-wine, and 
it was quite necessary to have a charwoman very often to as- 
sist Nanny in all the extra work that fell upon her. 

Mrs. Hackit, who hardly ever paid a visit to any one but 
her oldest and nearest neighbor, Mrs. Patten, now took the 
unusual step of calling at the vicarage one morning ; and the 
tears came into her unsentimental eyes as she saw Milly 
seated pale and feeble in the parlor, unable to persevere in 
sewing the pinafore that lay on the table beside her. Little 
Dickey, a boisterous boy of five, with large pink cheeks and 
sturdy legs, was having his turn to sit with mamma, and was 
squatting quiet as a mouse at her knee, holding her soft 
white hand between his little red, black-nailed fists. He was 
a boy whom Mrs. Hackit, in a severe mood, had pronounced 
“ stocky ” (a word that etymologically, in all probability, con- 
veys some allusion to an instrument of punishment for the 
refractory) ; but seeing him thus subdued into goodness, she 
smiled at him with her kindest smile, and, stooping down, 
suggested a kiss — a favor which Dickey resolutely declined. 

“ Now do you take nourishing things enough ? ” was one 
of Mrs. Hackit’s first questions, and Milly endeavored to 
make it appear that no woman was ever so much in danger 


42 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


of being over-fed and led into self-indulgent habits as herself. 
But Mrs. Hackit gathered one fact from her replies, namely, 
that Mr. Brand had ordered port-wine. 

While this conversation was going forward, Dickey had 
been furtively stroking and kissing the soft white hand ; so 
that at last, when a pause came, his mother said, smilingly, 
“ Why are you kissing my hand, Dickey } ” 

“ It id to yovely,” answered Dickey, who, you observe, 
was decidedly backward in his pronunciation. 

Mrs. Hackit remembered this little scene in after days, 
and thought with peculiar tenderness and pity of the “ stocky 
boy.” 

The next day there came a hamper with Mrs. Hackit’s re- 
spects j and on being opened it was found to contain half a 
dozen of port-wine and two couples of fowls. Mrs. Farquhar, 
too, was very kind ; insisted on Mrs. Barton’s rejecting all 
arrow-root but hers, which was genuine Indian, and carried 
away Sophy and Fred to stay with her a fortnight. These 
and other good-natured attentions made the trouble of Milly’s 
illness more bearable ; but they could not prevent it from 
swelling expenses, and Mr. Barton began to have serious 
thoughts of representing his case to a certain charity for the 
relief of needy curates. 

Altogether, as matters stood in Shepperton, the parishion- 
ers were more likely to have a strong sense that the clergy- 
man needed their material aid, than that they needed his 
spiritual aid, — not the best state of things in this age and 
country, where faith in men solely on the ground of their 
spiritual gifts has considerably diminished, and especially 
unfavorable to the influence of the Rev. Amos, whose spirit- 
ual gifts would not have had a very commanding power even 
in an age of faith. 

But, you ask, did not the Countess Czerlaski pay any 
attention to her friends all this time } To be sure she did. 
She was indefatigable in visiting her “ sweet Milly,” and 
sitting with her for hours together. It may seem remarkable 
to you that she neither thought of taking away any of the 
children, nor of providing for any of Milly’s probable wants ; 
but ladies of rank and of luxurious habits, you know, cannot 
be expected to surmise the details of poverty. She put a 
great deal of eau-de-Cologne on Mrs. Barton’s pocket-hand- 
kerchief, re-arranged her pillow and footstool, kissed her 
cheeks, wrapped her in a soft warm shawl from her own 
shoulders, and amused her with stories of the life she had 


AA '/OS h iRTON. 


43 


seen abroad. When Mr. Barton joined them she talked of 
Tractarianism, of her determination not to re-enter the vortex 
of fashionable life, and of her anxiety to see him in a sphere 
large enough for his talents. Milly thought her sprightliness 
and affectionate warmth quite charming, and was very fond 
of her ; while the Rev. Amos had a vague consciousness that 
he had risen into aristocratic life, and only associated with 
his middle-class parishioners in a pastoral and parenthetic 
manner. 

However, as the days brightened, Milly’s cheeks and lips 
brightened too ; and in a few weeks she was almost as active 
as ever, though watchful eyes might have seen that activity 
was not easy to her. Mrs. Hackit’s eyes were of that kind, 
and one day, when Mr. and Mrs. Barton had been dining 
with her for the first time since Milly’s illness, she observed 
to her husband — “ That poor thing’s dreadful weak an’ dil- 
icate ; she won’t stan’ havin’ many more children.” 

Mr. Barton, meanwhile, had been indefatigable in his 
vocation. He had preached two extemporary sermons every 
Sunday at the workhouse, where a room had been fitted up 
for divine service, pending the alterations in the church ; and 
had walked the same evening to a cottage at one or other 
extremity of his parish to deliver another sermon, still more 
extemporary, in an atmosphere impregnated with spring- 
flowers and perspiration. After all these labors you will 
easily conceive that he was considerably exhausted by half 
pasc nine o’clock in the evening, and that a supper at a 
friendly parishioner’s with a glass, or even two glasses, of 
brandy-and-water after it, was a welcome re-enforcement. 
Mr. Barton was not at all an ascetic ; he thought the benefits 
of fasting were entirely confined to the Old Testament dis- 
pensation ; he was fond of relaxing himself with a little 
gossip ; indeed. Miss Bond, and other ladies of enthusiastic 
views, sometimes regretted that Mr. Barton did not more 
uninterruptedly exhibit a superiority to the things of the flesh. 
Thin ladies, who take little exercise, and whose livers are 
not strong enough to bear stimulants, are so extremely critical 
about one’s personal habits. And, after all, the Rev. Amos 
never came near the borders of a vice. His very faults 
were middling — he was not very ungrammatical. It was not 
in his nature to be superlative in anything ; unless, indeed, 
he was superlatively middling, the quintessential extract of 
mediocrity. If there was any one point on which he showed 
an inclination to be excessive, it was confidence in his own 


44 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


shrewdness and ability in practical matters, so that he was 
very full of plans which were something like his moves in 
chess— admirably well calculated, supposing the state of the 
case were otherwise. For example, that notable plan of 
introducing anti-Dissenting books into his Lending Library 
did not in the least appear to have bruised the head of Dis- 
sent, though it had certainly made Dissent strongly inclined 
to bite the Rev. Amos’s heel. Again, he vexed the souls of 
his churchwardens and influential parishioners by his fertile 
suggestiveness as to what it would be well for them to do in 
the matter of the church repairs, and other ecclesiastical 
secularities. 

“ I never saw the like to parsons,” Mr. Hackit said one 
day in conversation with his brother churchwarden, Mr. 
Bond ; “ they’re al’ys for meddling with business, an’ they 
know no more about it than my black filly.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Mr. B^nd, they’re too high learnt to have 
much common sense.” 

“ Well,” remarked Mr. Hackit, in a modest and dubious 
tone, as if throwing out an hypothesis which might be con- 
sidered bold, “ I should say that's a bad sort of eddication 
as makes folks unreasonable.” 

So that, you perceive, Mr. Barton’s popularity was in that 
precarious condition, in that toppling and contingent state, 
in which a very slight push from a malignant destiny would 
utterly upset it. That push was not long in being given, as 
you shall hear. 

One fine May morning, when Amos was out on his paro- 
chial visits, and the sunlight was streaming through the bow- 
window of the sitting-room, where Milly was seated at her 
sewing, occasionally looking up to glance at the children 
playing in the garden, there came a loud rap at the door, 
which she at once recognized as the Countess’s, and that 
well-dressed Iidy presently entered the sitting-room, with her 
veil drawn over her face. Milly was not at all surprised or 
sorry to see her ; but when the Countess threw up her veil, 
and showed that her eyes were red and swollen, she was both 
surprised and sorry. 

“ What can be the matter, dear Caroline ? ” 

Caroline threw down Jet, who gave a little yelp ; then she 
threw her arms round Milly’s neck, and began to sob ; then 
she threw herself on the sofa, and begged for a glass of 
water ; then she threw off her bonnet and shawl ; and by the 
time Milly’s imagination had exhausted itself in conjuring up 
calamities, she said. 


AAfOS BARTON. 


45 

“ Dear, how shall I tell you ? I am the most wretched 
woman. To be deceived by a brother to whom I have been 
so devoted — to see him degrading himself — giving himself 
utterly to the dogs ! ” 

“ What can it be ? ” said Milly, who began to picture 
to herself the sober Mr. Bridmain taking to brandy and bet- 
ting. 

He is going to be married — to marry my own maid, that 
deceitful Alice, to whom I have been the most indulgent mis- 
tress. Did you ever hear of anything so disgraceful ? so mor- 
tifying ? so disreputable ? ” 

“ And has l^e only just told you of it ? ” said Milly, who, 
having really heard of worse conduct, even in her innocent 
life, avoided a direct answer. 

“ Told me of it ! he had not even the grace to do that. I 
went into the dining-room suddenly and found him kissing 
her — disgusting at his time of life, is it not ? — and when I re- 
proved her for allowing such liberties, she turned round 
saucily, and said she was engaged to be married to my 
brother, and she saw no shame in allowing him to kiss her. 
Edmund is a miserable coward, you know, and looked fright- 
ened ; but when she asked him to say whether it was not so, 
he tried to summon up courage and say yes. I left the room 
in disgust, and this morning I have been questioning Edmund, 
and find that he is bent on mariydng this woman, and that he 
has been putting off telling me — because he was ashamed of 
himself, I suppose. I couldn’t possibly stay in the house 
after this, with my own maid turned mistress. And now, 
Milly, I am come to throw myself on your charity for a week 
or two. Will you take me in ? ” 

“That we will,” said Milly, “if you will only put up with 
our poor rooms and way of living. It will be delightful to 
have you.” 

“ It will soothe me to be with you and Mr. Barton a little 
while. I feel quite unable to go among my other friends 
just at present. What those two wretched people will do I 
don’t know — leave the neighborhood at once, I hope. I en- 
treated my brother to do so, before he disgraced himself.” 

When Amos came home, he joined his cordial welcome 
and sympathy to Milly’s. By and by the Countess’s formid- 
able boxes, which she had carefully packed before her indig- 
nation drove her away from Camp Villa, arrived at the vicar- 
age, and were deposited in the spare bedroom, and in two 
cfosets, not spare, which Milly emptied for their reception.. 


SCEiVES OF CLEF /CAL LIFE. 


46 

A week afterwards, the excellent apartments at Camp Villa, 
comprising dining and drawing-rooms, three bedrooms and a 
dressing-room, were again to let, and Mr. Bridmain’s sudden 
departure, together with the Countess Czerlaski’s installation 
as a visitor at Shepperton Vicarage, became a topic of gen- 
eral conversation in the neighborhood. The keen-sighted 
virtue of Milby and Shepperton saw in all this a confirmation 
of its worst suspicions, and pitied the Rev. Amos Barton’s 
gullibility. 

But when week after week, and month after month, slipped 
by without witnessing the Countess’s departure — when sum- 
mer and harvest had fled, and still left her behind them oc- 
cupying the spare bedroom and the closets, and also a large 
proportion of Mrs. Barton’s time and attention, new surmises 
of a very evil kind were added to the old rumors, and began 
to take the form of settled convictions in the minds even of 
Mr. Barton’s most friendly parishioners. 

And now, here is an opportunity for an accomplished 
writer to apostrophize calumny, to quote Virgil, and to show 
that he is acquainted with the most ingenious tilings which 
have been said on that subject in polite literature. 

But what is opportunity to the man who can’t use it ? An 
unfecundated egg, which the waves of time wash away into 
nonentity. So, as my memory is ill-furnished, and my note- 
book still worse, I am unable to show myself either erudite 
or eloquent apropos of the calumny whereof the Rev. Amos 
Barton was the victim. I can only ask my reader, — did you 
ever upset your inkbottle, and watch, in helpless agony, the 
rapid spread of Stygian blackness over your fair manuscript 
or fairer table cover ? With a like inky swiftness did gossip 
now blacken the reputation of the Rev. Amos Barton, caus- 
ing the unfriendly to scorn and even the friendly to stand 
aloof, at a time when difficulties of another kind were fast 
thickening around him. 


CHAPTER VI. 

One November morning, at least six months after the 
Countess Czerlaski had taken up her residence at the vicar- 
age, Mrs. Racket heard that her neighbor Mrs. Patten had an 


AMOS BA/? TOM, 


47 


attack of her old complaint, vaguely called “the spasms.” 
Accordingly, about eleven o’clock, she put on her velvet bon- 
net and cloth cloak, with a long boa and muff large enough 
to stow a prize baby in ; for Mrs. Hackit regulated her cos- 
tume by the calendar, and brought out her furs on the first 
of November, whatever might be the temperature. She was 
not a woman weakly to accomodate herself to shilly-shally 
proceedings. If the season didn’t know what it ought to do, 
Mrs. Hackit did. In her best days, it was always sharp 
weather at “ Gunpowder Plot,” and she didn’t like new fash- 
ions. 

And this morning the weather was very rational in ac- 
cordance with her costume, for as she made her way through 
the fields to Cross Farm, the yellow leaves on the hedge-girt 
elms, which showed bright and golden against the low'-hang- 
ing purple clouds, were being scattered across the grassy path 
by the coldest of November winds. “ Ah,” Mrs. Hacket 
thought to herself, “ 1 daresay we shall have a sharp pinch 
this whiter, and if we do, I shouldn’t wonder if it takes the 
old lady off. They say a green Yule makes a fat church- 
yard ; but so does a w'hite Yule too, for that matter. When 
the stool’s rotten enough, no matter who sits on it.” 

However, on her arrival at Cross Farm, the prospect of 
Mrs. Patten’s decease was again thrown into the dim dis- 
tance in her imagination, for Miss Janet Gibbs met her with 
the news that Mrs. Patten was much better, and led her, 
without any preliminary announcement, to the old lady’s 
bedroom. Janet had scarcely reached the end of her cir- 
cumstantial narrative, how the attack came on and what were 
her aunt’s sensations — a narrative to wdiich Mrs. Patten, in 
her neatly-plaited nightcap, seemed to listen with a con- 
temptuous resignation to her niece’s historical inaccuracy, 
contenting herself with occasionally confounding Janet by a 
shake of the head — when the clatter of a horse’s hoofs on die 
yard pavement announced the arrival of Mr. Pilgrim, whose 
large, top booted person presently made its appearance up 
stairs. He found Mrs. Patten going on so well that there 
was no need to look solemn. He might glide from condo- 
lence into gossip without offence, and the temptation of hav- 
ing Mrs. Hackit’s ear was irresistible. 

What a disgraceful business this is turning out of your 
parson’s,” was the remark with which he made this agree- 
able transition, throwing himself back in the chair from 
which he had been leaning towards the patient. 


48 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


“ Eh, clear me ! ” said Mrs. Hackit, “ disgraceful enough. 
I stuck to Mr. Barton as long as I could, for his wife’s sake ; 
but I can’t countenance such goings on. It’s hateful to see 
that v/oman coming with ’em to service of a Sunday, and if 
Mr. Hackit wasn’t churchwarden and I didn’t think it wrong 
to forsake one’s own parish, I should go to Knebley Church. 
There’s a many parish’ners as do.” 

“ I used to think Barton was only a fool,” observed Mr. 
Pilg im, in atone which implied that he was conscious of 
having been weakly charitable. “ I thought he was imposed 
upon and led away by those people when they first came. 
But that’s impossible now.” 

“ Oh, it’s as plain as the nose in your face,” said Mrs. 
Hackit, unreflectingly, not perceiving the equivoque in her 
comparison — “ cornin’ to Mil by. like a sparrow perchin’ on a 
bough, as I may say, with her brother, as she called him ; and 
then all on a sudden the brother goes off with himself, and 
she throws herself on the Bartons. Though what could make 
her take up with a poor notomise of a parson, as hasn’t got 
enough to keep wife and children, there’s One above knows 
— 1 don’t.” 

“ Mr. Burton may have attractions we don’t know of,” 
said Mr. Pilgrim, who piqued himself on a talent for sarcasm. 
“ The Countess has no maid now, and they say Mr. Barton is 
handy in as^sting at her toilette — laces her boots, and so 
forth.” 

“T’ilette be fiddled!” said Mrs. Hackit, with indignant 
boldness of metaphor ; “ an’ there’s that poor thing a-sewing 
her fingers to the bone for them children — an’ another cornin’ 
on. What she must have to go through ! It goes to my 
heart to turn my back on her. But she’s i’ the wrong to let 
herself be put upon i’ that manner.” 

“Ah 1 1 was talking to Mrs. Farquhar about that the other 
day. She said, ‘ I think Mrs. Barton a v-e-r-y w-e-a-k w-o-m- 
a-n.’ ” (Mr. Pilgrim gave this quotation with slow emphasis, 
as if he thought Mrs. Farquhar had uttered a remarkable sen- 
timent.) “They find it impossible to invite her to their house 
while she has that equivocal person staying with her.” 

. “ Well ! ” remarked Mrs. Gibbs, “ if I was a wife, noth- 
ing should induce me to bear what Mrs. Barton does.” 

“ Yes, it’s fine talking,” said Mrs. Patten, from her pil- 
low ; “ old maids’ husbands are al’ys well-managed. If you 
was a wife you’d be as foolish as your betters, belike.” 

“ All my wonder is,” observed Mrs. Hackit, “ how the 


AMOS BARTON. 


49 


Bartons make both ends meet. You may depend on it, she's 
got nothing to give ’em ; for I understand as he’s been hav- 
ing money from some clergy charity. They said at fust as 
she stuffed Mr. Barton wi’ notioris about her writing to the 
Chancellor an’ her fine friends, to give him a living. How- 
iver, I don’t know what’s true an’ what’s false. Mr. Barton 
keeps away from our house now, for I gave him a bit o’ my 
mind one day. Maybe he’s ashamed of himself. He seems 
to me to look dreadful thin an’ harassed of a Sunday.” 

“Oh, he must be aware he’s getting into bad odor every- 
where. The clergy are quite disgusted with his folly. They 
say Carpe would be glad to get Barton out of the curacy if 
he could ; but he can’t do that without coming to Shepperton 
himself, as Barton’s a licensed curate ; and he wouldn’t like 
that, I suppose.” 

At this moment Mrs. Patten showed signs of uneasiness, 
which recalled Mr. Pilgrim to professional attentions ; and 
Mrs. Hackit, observing that it was Thursday, and she must 
see after the butter, said good-by, promising to look in again 
soon and bring her knitting. 

This Thursday, by the bye, is the first in the month — the 
day on which the Clerical Meeting is held at Milby Vicarage ; 
and as the Rev. Amos Barton has reasons for not attending, 
he will very likely be a subject of conversation amongst his 
clerical brethren. Suppose we go there, and hear whether 
Mr. Pilgrim has reported their opinion correctly. 

There is not a numerous party to-day, for it is a season of 
sore throats and catarrhs j so that the exegetical and theolog- 
ical discussions, which are the preliminary of dining, have not 
been quite so spirited as usual ; and although a question rel- 
ative to the Epistle of Jude has not been quite cleared up, 
the striking of six by the church clock, and the simultaneous 
announcement of dinner, are sounds that no one feels to be 
importunate. 

Pleasant (when one is not in the least bilious) to enter a 
comfortable dining-room, where the closely-drawn red curtains 
glow with the double light of fire and candle, where glass 
and sih^er are glittering on the pure damask, and a soup-tureen 
gives a hint of the fragrance that will presently rush out to 
inundate your hungry senses, and prepare them, by the deli- 
cate visitation of atoms, for the keen gusto of ample contact ! 
Especially if you have confidence in the dinner-giving capacity 
of your host — if you know that he is not a man who entertains 
grovelling views of eating and drinking as a mere satisfaction 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


50 

of hunger and thirst, and, dead to all che finer influences of 
the palate, expects his guest to be brilliant on ill-flavored 
gravies and the cheapest Marsala. Mr. Ely was particularly 
worthy of such confidence, and his virtues as an Amphitryon 
had probably contributed quite as much as the central situa- 
tion of Milby to the selection of his house as a clerical rendez- 
vous. He looks particularly graceful at the head of his table, 
and, indeed, on all occasions where he acts as president or 
moderator : he is a man who seems to listen well, and is an 
excellent amalgam of dissimilar ingredients. 

At the other end of the table, as “ Vice,” sits Mr. Fellowes, 
rector and magistrate, a man of imposing appearance, with a 
mellifluous voice and the readiest of tongues. Mr. Fellowes 
once obtained a living by the persuasive charms of his con- 
versation, and the fluency W4th which he interpreted the 
opinions of an obese and stammering baronet, so as to give 
that elderly gentleman a very pleasing perception of his own 
wisdom. Mr. Fellowes is a very successful man, and has the 
highest character everywhere except in his own parish, where, 
doubtless because his parishioners happen to be quarrelsome 
people, he is always at fierce feud with a farmer or two, a 
colliery proprietor, a grocer who was once churchwarden, and 
a tailor who formerly officiated as clerk. 

At Mr. Ely’s right hand you see a very small 'man with a 
sallow and somewhat puffy face, whosd hair is brushed straight 
up, evidently with the intention of giving him a height some- 
what less disproportionate to his sense of his own importance 
than the measure of five feet three accorded him by an over- 
sight of nature. This is the Rev. Archibald Duke, a very 
dyspeptic and evangelical man, who takes the gloomiest view 
of mankind and their prospects, and thinks the immense sale 
of the “ Pickwick Papers,” recently completed, one of the 
strongest proofs of original sin. Unfortunately, though Mr. 
Duke was not burdened with a family, his yearly expenditure 
was apt considerably to exceed his income ; and the unpleas- 
ant circumstances resulting from this, together with heavy 
meat-breakfasts, may probably have contributed to his de- 
sponding views of the world generally. 

Next to him is seated Mr. Furness, a tall young man with 
blond hair and whiskers, who was plucked at Cambridge, en- 
tirely owing to his genius ; at least I know that he soon af- 
terwards published a volume of poems, which were considered 
remarkably beautiful by many young ladies of his acquaint- 
ance. Mr. Furness preached his own sermons, as any one of 


ylMOS BARTON’, 


51 


tolerable critical acumen might have certified by comparing 
them with his poems \ in both, there was an exuberance of 
metaphor and simile entirely original, and not in the least 
borrowed from any resemblance in the things compared. 

On Mr. Furness’s left you see Mr. Pugh, another young 
curate, of much less marked characteristics. He had not pud- 
lished any poems \ he had not even been plucked ; he had 
neat black whiskers and a pale complexion \ read prayers 
and a sermon twice every Sunday, and might be seen any day 
sallying forth on his parochial duties in a white tie, a well- 
brushed hat, a perfect suit of black, and well-polished boots 
— an equipment which he probably supposed hieroglyph- 
ically to represent the spirit of Christianity to the parish- 
ioners of Whittlecombe. 

Mr. Pugh’s vis-a-vis is the Rev. Martin Cleves, a man 
about forty — middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with a negli- 
gently-tied cravat, large, irregular features, and a large head, 
thickly covered with lanky brown hair. To a superficial 
glance, Mr. Cleves is the plainest and least clerical-looking of 
the party ; yet, strange to say, there is the true parish priest, 
the pastor beloved, consulted, relied on by his flock ; a cler- 
gyman who is not associated with the undertaker, but thought 
of as the surest helper under a difficulty, as a monitor who is 
encouraging rather than severe. Mr. Cleves has the wonder- 
ful art of preaching sermons which the wheelwright and the 
blacksmith can understand ; not because he talks condescend- 
ing twaddle, but becau.se he can call a spade a spade, and 
knows how to disencumber ideas of their worldly frippery. 
Look at him more attentively and you will see that his face 
is a very interesting one — that there is a great deal of humor 
and feeling playing in his gray eyes, and about the corners 
of his roughly-cut mouth : — a man, you observe, who has 
most likely sprung from the harder-working section of the 
middle class, and has hereditary sympathies with the check- 
ered life of the people. He gets together the working-men 
in his parish on a Monday evening, and gives them a sort of 
conversational lecture on useful practical matters, telling 
them stories, or reading some select passages from an agree- 
able book, and commenting on them ; and if you were to 
ask the first laboror or artisan in Tripplegate what sort of 
man the parson was, he would say, — “ a uncommon knowin’, 
sensable, free-spoken gentleman ; very kind an’ good natur’d 
too.” Yet, for all this, he is perhaps the best Grecian of the 
party, if we except Mr. Baird, the young man on his left. 


52 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


Mr. Baird has since gained considerable celebrity as an 
original writer and metropolitan lecturer, but at that time he 
used to preach in a little church something like a barn, to a 
congregation consisting of three rich farmers and their ser- 
vants, about fifteen laborers, and the due proportion of 
women and children. The rich farmers understood him to be 
“ very high learnt ; ” but if you had interrogated them for a 
more precise description, they would have said that he was 
“ a thinnish-faced man, with a sort o’ cast in his eye, like.” 

Seven, altogether : a delightful number for a dinner-party, 
supposing the units to be delightful, but everything depends 
on that. During dinner Mr. Fellows took the lead in the con- 
versation, which set strongly in the direction of mangold- 
wurzel and the rotation of crops ; for Mr. Fellowes and Mr. 
Cleves cultivated their own glebes. Mr. Ely, too, had some 
agricultural notions, and even the Rev. Archibald Duke was 
made alive to that class of mundane subjects by the posses- 
sion of some potato-ground. The two young curates talked a 
little aside during these discussions, which had imperfect in- 
terest for their unbeneficed minds ; and the transcendental 
and near-sighted Mr. Baird seemed to listen somewhat ab- 
stractedly, knowing little more of potatoes and mangold- 
wurzel than that they were some form of the “ Conditioned.” 

“What a hobby farming is with Lord Watling!” said 
Mr. Fellowes, when the cloth was being drawn. “ I went 
over his farm at Tetterley with him last summer. It is really 
a model farm ; first-rate dairy grazing, and wheat land, and 
such splendid farm-buildings ! An expensive hobby, though. 
He sinks a good deal of money there, I fancy. He has a 
great whim for black cattle, and he sends that drunken old 
Scotch bailiff of his to Scotland every year, with hundreds in 
his pocket, to buy these beasts.” 

“ By the bye,” said Mr. Ely, “ do you know who is the man 
to whom Lord Watling has given the Bramhill living? ” 

“ A man named Sargent. I knew him at Oxford. His 
brother is a law3^er, and was very useful to Lord Watling in that 
ugly Brounsell affair. That’s why Sargent got the living.” 

“ Sargent,” said Mr. Ely. “I know him. Isn’t he a showy, 
talkative fellow ; has written travels in Mesopotamia, or 
something of that sort ? ” 

“ That’s the man.” 

“ He was at Witherington once, as Bagshawe’s curate. 
He got into rather bad odor there, through some scandal 
about a flirtation, I think.” 


AMOS BAR 7 OAT. 


53 


“Talking of scandal,” returned Mr. Fellowes, “have you 
heard the last story about Barton ? Nisbett was telling me the 
other day that he dines alone with the Countess at six, while 
Mrs. Barton is in the kitchen acting as cook.” 

“ Rather an apocryphal authority, Nisbett,” said Mr. Ely. 

“ Ah,” said Mr. Cleves, with good-natured humor twink- 
ling in his eyes, “ depend upon it that is a corrupt version. 
The original text is, that they all dined together with six — 
meaning six children — and that Mrs. Barton is an excellent 
cook.” 

“ I wish dining alone together may be the worst of that sad 
business,” said the Rev. Archibald Duke, in a tone implying 
that his wish was a strong figure of speech. 

“Well,” said Mr. Fellowes, filling his glass and looking 
jocose, “ Barton is certainly either the greatest gull in exist- 
ence, or he has some cunning secret, — some philtre or other 
to make himself charming in the eyes of a fair lady. It isn’t 
all of us that can make conquests when our ugliness is past its 
bloom.” 

“ The lady seemed to have made a conquest of him at the 
very outset,” said Mr. Ely “ I was immensely amused one night 
at Granby’s when he was telling us her story about her hus- 
band’s adventures. He said, ‘ When she told me the tale, I 
felt I don’t know how, — I felt it from the crown of my head 
to the sole of my feet.’ ” 

Mr. Ely gave these words dramatically, imitating the Rev. 
Amos’s fervor and symbolic action, and every one laughed ex- 
cept Mr. Duke, whose after-dinner view of things was not apt 
to be jovial. He said, — 

“ I think some of us ought to remonstrate with Mr. Bar- 
ton on the scandal he is causing. He is not only imperilling 
his own soul, but the souls of his flock.” 

“ Depend upon it,” said Mr. Cleves, “ there is some simple 
explanation of the whole affair, if we only happened to know 
it. Barton has always impressed me as a right-minded man, 
who has the knack of doing himself injustice by his manner.” 

“ Now / never liked Barton,” said Mr. Fellowes. “ He’s 
not a gentleman. Why, he used to be on terms of intimacy 
with that canting Prior, who died a little while ago ; — a fellow 
who soaked himself with spirits, and talked of the Gospel 
through an inflamed nose.” 

“ The Countess has given him more refined tastes, I dare 
say,” said Mr. Ely. 

“ Well,” observed Mr. Cleves, “ the poor fellow must have 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


54 

a hard pull to get along, with his small income and large 
family. Let us hope the Countess does something towards 
making the pot boil.” 

“ Not she,” said Mr. Duke ; “ there are greater signs of 
poverty about them than ever.” 

“ Well, come,” returned Mr. Cleves, who could be caustic 
sometimes, and who was not at all fond* of his reverend brother, 
Mr. Duke, “ that’s something in Barton’s favor at all events. 
He might be poor without showing signs of poverty.” 

Mr. Duke turned rather yellow, which was his way of blush- 
ing, and Mr. Ely came to his relief by observing, 

“ They’re making a very good piece of work of Shepper- 
ton Church. Dolby, the architect, who has it in hand, is a 
very clever fellow.” 

“ It’s he who has been doing Coppleton Church,” said 
Mr. Furness. “ They’ve got it in excellent order for the 
visitation.” 

This mention of the visitation suggested the Bishop, and 
thus opened a wide duct, which entirely diverted the stream 
of animadversion from that small pipe — that capillary vessel, 
the Rev. Amos Barton. 

The talk of the clergy about their Bishop belongs to the 
esoteric part of their profession ; so we will at once quit the din- 
ing-room at Milby Vicarage, lest we should happen to over- 
hear remarks unsuited to the lay understanding, and perhaps 
dangerous to our repose of mind. 


CHAPTER Vri. 

I DARE say the long residence of the Countess Czerlaski 
at Shepperton Vicarage is very puzzling to you also, dear read- 
er, as well as to Mr. Barton’s clerical brethren ; the more so, 
as I hope you are not in the least inclined to put that very evil 
interpretation on it which evidently found acceptance with the 
sallow and dyspeptic Mr. Duke, and with the florid and highly 
peptic Mr. Fellowes. You have seen enough, I trust, of the Rev. 
Amos Barton, to be convinced that he was more apt to fall 
into a blunder than into a sin — more apt to be deceived than 
to incur a necessity for being deceitful j and if you have a 
keen eye for physiognomy, you will have detected that the 


AMOS BARTON-. 


55 

Countess Czerlaski loved herself far too well to get entangled 
in an unprofitable vice. 

How, then, you will say, could this fine lady choose to 
quarter herself on the establishment of a poor curate, where 
the carpets were probably falling into holes, where the at- 
tendance was limited to a maid-of-all-work, and where six 
children were running loose from eight o’clock in the morning 
till eight o’clock in the evening "i Surely you must be strain- 
ing probability. 

Heaven forbid ! For not having a lofty imagination, as 
you perceive, and being unable to invent thrilling incidents 
for your amusement, my only merit must lie in the truth with 
which I represent to you the humble experience of ordinary 
fellow-mortals. I wish to stir your sympathy with common- 
place troubles — to win your tears for real sorrow : sorrow such 
as may live next door to you — such as walks neither in rags 
nor in velvet, but in very ordinary decent apparel. 

Therefore, that you may dismiss your suspicions as to the 
truth of my picture, I will beg you to consider that at the 
time the Countess Czerlaski left Camp Villa in dudgeon, she 
had only twenty pounds in her pocket, being about one-third 
of the income she possessed independently of her brother. 
You will then perceive that she was in the extremely incon- 
venient predicament of having quarrelled, not indeed with 
her bread and cheese, but certainly with her chicken and tart 
— a predicament all the more inconvenient to her, because 
the habit of idleness had quite unfitted her for earning those 
necessary superfluities, and because, with all her fascinations, 
she had not secured any enthusiastic friends whose houses 
were open to her, and who were dying to see her. Thus she 
had completely checkmated herself, unless she could resolve 
on one unpleasant move — namely, to humble herself to her 
brother, and recognize his wife. This seemed quite impossi- 
ble to her as long as she entertained the hope that he would 
make the first advances : and in this flattering hope she re- 
mained month after month at Shepperton Vicarage, gracefully 
overlooking the deficiencies of accommodation, and feeling 
that she was really behaving charmingly. “ Who indeed ” 
she thought to herself, “could do otherwise, with a lovely, 
gentle creature like Milly .? I shall really be sorry to leave 
the poor thing.” 

So, though she lay in bed till ten, and came down to a 
separate breakfast at eleven, she kindly consented to dine as 
early as five, when a hot joint was prepared, which coldly 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


56 

furnished forth the children’s table the next day ; she con- 
siderately prevented Milly from devoting herself too closely 
to the children, by insisting on reading, talking, and walking 
with her ; and she even began to embroider a cap for the 
next baby, which must certainly be a girl, and be named 
Caroline. 

After the first month or two of her residence at the Vicar- 
age, the Rev. Amos Barton became aware — as, indeed, it 
was unavoidable that he should — of the strong disapproba- 
tion it drew upon him, and the change of feeling towards him 
which it was producing in his kindest parishioners. But, in 
the first place, he still believed in the Countess as a charming 
and influential woman, disposed to befriend him, and, in any 
case, he could hardly hint departure to a lady guest who had 
been kind to him and his, and who might any day spontane- 
ously announce the termination of her visit j in the second 
place, he was conscious of his own innocence, and felt some 
contemptuous indignation towards people who were ready to 
imagine evil of him ; and, lastly, he had, as I have already 
intimated, a strong will of his own, so that a certain obstinacy 
and defiance mingled itself with his other feelings on the 
subject. 

The one unpleasant consequence which was not to be 
evaded or counteracted by any mere mental state, was the 
increasing drain on his slender purse for household expenses, 
to meet which the remittance he had received from the cleri- 
cal charity threatened to be quite inadequate. Slander may 
be defeated by equanimity ; but courageous thoughts will not 
pay your baker’s bill, and fortitude is nowhere considered 
legal tender for beef. Month after month the financial as- 
pect of the Rev. Amos’s affairs became more and more seri- 
ous to him, and month after month, too, wore away more and 
more of that armor of indignation and defiance with which he 
had at first defended himself from the harsh looks of faces 
that were once the friendliest. 

But quite the heaviest pressure of the trouble fell on 
Milly — on gentle, uncomplaining Milly — whose delicate body 
was becoming daily less fit for all the many things that had 
to be done between rising up and lying down. At first, she 
thought the Countess’s visit would not last long, and she was 
quite glad to incur extra exertion for the sake of making her 
friend comfortable. I can hardly bear to think of all the 
rough work she did with those lovely hands — all by the sly, 
without letting her husband know anything about it, and 


AMOS BARTON. 


57 

husbands are not clairvoyant : how she salted bacon, ironed 
shirts and cravats, put patches on patches, and re-darned darns. 
Then there was the task of mending and eking out baby-linen 
in prospect, and the problem perpetually suggesting itself how 
she and Nanny should manage when there was another baby, 
as there would be before very many months were past. 

When time glided on, and the Countess’s visit did not end, 
Milly was not blind to any phase of their position. She knew 
of the slander ; she was aware of the keeping aloof of old 
friends ; but these she felt almost entirely on her husband’s 
account. A loving woman’s world lies within the four walls 
of her own home ) and it is only through her husband that 
she is in any electric communication with the world beyond. 
Mrs. Simpkins may have looked scornfully at her, but baby 
crows and holds out his little arms none the less blithely ; 
Mrs. Tomkins may have left off calling on her, but her hus- 
band comes home none the less to receive her care and ca- 
resses ; it has been wet and gloomy out of doors to-day, but 
she has looked well after the shirt-buttons, has cut out baby’s 
pinafores, and half finished Willy’s blouse. 

So it was with Milly. She was only vexed that her hus- 
band should be vexed — only wounded because he was mis- 
conceived. But the difficulty about ways and means she felt 
in quite a different manner. Her rectitude was alarmed lest 
they should have to make tradesmen wait for their money ; 
her motherly love dreaded the diminution of comforts for the 
children ; and the sense of her own failing health gave exag- 
gerated force to these fears. 

Milly could no longer shut her eyes to the fact, that the 
Countess was inconsiderate, if she did not allow herself to en- 
tertain severer thoughts j and she began to feel that it would 
soon be a dutv to tell her frankly that they really could not 
afford to have her visit further prolonged. But a process was 
going forward in two other minds, which ultimately saved 
Milly from having to perform this painful task. 

In the first place, the Countess was getting w'eary of Shep- 
perton — weary of waiting for her brother’s overtures which 
never came ; so, one fine morning, she reflected that forgive- 
ness was a Christian duty, that a sister should be placable, 
that Mr. Bridmain must feel the need of her advice, to which 
he had been accustomed for three years, and that very likely 
‘‘ that woman” did’nt make the poor man happy. In this 
amiable frame of mind she wrote a very affectionate appeal, 
and addressed it to Mr. Bridmain, through his banker. 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


58 

Another mind that was being wrought up to a climax was 
Nanny’s, the maid-of-all-work, who had a warm heart and a 
still warmer temper. Nanny adored her mistress j she had 
been heard to say, that she was “ ready to kiss the ground as 
the missis trod on ; ” and Walter, she considered, was her 
baby, of whom she was as jealous as a lover. But she had 
from the first, very slight admiration for the Countess C;',er- 
laski. That lady, from Nanny’s point of view, was a person- 
age always “ drawed out i’ fine clothes,” the chief result of 
whose existence was to cause additional bed-making, carry- 
ing of hot water, laying of table-cloths, and cooking of din- 
ners. It was a perpetually heightening “ aggravation” to 
Nanny that she and her mistress had to “slave” more than 
ever, because there was this fine lady in the house. 

“ An’ she pays nothin’ for’t neither,” observed Nanny to 
Mr. Jacob Tomms, a young gentleman in the tailoring line, 
who occasionally — simply out of a taste for dialogue — looked 
into the vicarage kitchen of an evening. “ I know the mas- 
ter’s shorter o’ money than iver, an’ it meks no end o’ differ- 
ence i’ th’ housekeepin’ — her bein’ here, besides bein’ obliged 
to have a charwoman constant.” 

“ There’s fine stories i’ the village about her,” said Mr. 
Tomms. “ They say as Muster Barton’s great wi’ her, or else 
she’d niver stop here.” 

“Then they say a passill o’ lies, an’ you ought to be 
ashamed to go an’ tell ’em o’er again. Do you think as the 
master, as has got a wife like the missis, ’ud go running arter 
a stuck-up piece o’ goods like that Countess, as isn’t fit to 
black the missis’s shoes ? I’m none so fond o’ the master, 
but I know better on him nor that.” 

“ Well, I didn’t b’lieve it,” said Mr. Tomms, humbly. 

“ B’lieve it ? you’d ha’ been a ninny if yer did. An’ she's 
a nasty, stingy thing, that Countess. She’s niver giv me a 
sixpence nor an old rag neither, sin’ here she’s been. A lyin’ 
abed an a-comin’ down to breakfast when other folks wants 
their dinner ! ” 

If such was the state of Nanny’s mind as early as the end 
of August, when this dialogue with Mr. Tomms occurred, you 
may imagine what it must have been by the beginning of 
November, and that at that time a very slight spark might 
any day cause the long-smouldering anger to flame forth in 
open indignation. 

That spark happened to fall the very morning that Mrs. 
Hackit paid the visit to Mrs. Patten, recorded in the last 


^ AMOS BAJ^l'ON. 


59 

chapter. Nanny’s dislike to the Countess extended to the 
innocent dog Jet, whom she “ couldn’t a-bear to see made a 
fuss wi’ like a Christian. An’ the little ouzel must be washed, 
too, ivery Saturday, as if there wasn’t children enoo to wash, 
wi’out washin’ dogs.” 

Now this particular morning it happened that Milly was 
quite too poorly to get up, and Mr. Barton observed to 
Nanny, on going out, that he would call and tell Mr. Brand to 
come. These circumstances were already enough to make 
Nanny anxious and susceptible. But the Countess, comfort- 
able ignorant of them, came down as usual about eleven 
o’clock to her separate breakfast, which stood ready for her 
at that hour in the parlor ; the kettle singing on the hob 
that she might make her own tea. There was a little jug of 
cream, taken according to custom from last night’s milk, and 
specially saved for the Countess’s breakfast. Jet always 
awaited his mistress at her bedroom door, and it was her 
habit to carry him down stairs. 

“Now, my little Jet,” she said, putting him down gently 
on the hearth-rug, “you shall have a nice, nice breakfast.” 

Jet indicated that he thought that observation extremely 
pertinent and well-tpmed, by immediately raising himself on 
his hind legs, and the Countess emptied the cream-jug into 
the saucer. Now there was usually a small jug of milk stand- 
ing on the tray by the side of the cream, and destined for 
Jet’s breakfast, but this morning Nanny, being “ moithered,” 
had forgotten that part of the arrangements, so that when 
the Countess had made her tea, she perceived there was no 
second jug, and rang the bell. Nanny appeared, looking very 
red and heated — the fact was, she had been “ doing up ” the 
kitchen fire, and that is a sort of work which by no means 
conduces to blandness of temper. 

“ Nanny, you have forgotten Jet’s milk ; will you bring 
me some more cream, please ? ” 

This was just a little too much for Nanny’s forbearance. 

“ Yes, I dare say. Here am I wi’ my hands full o’ the 
children an’ the dinner, and the missis ill a-bed, and Mr. 
Brand a-comin’ ; and I must run o’er the village to get more 
cream, ’cause you’ve give it to that nasty little blackamoor.” 

“ Is Mrs Barton ill ? ” 

“ 111 — yes — T should think she is ill, an’ much vou care. 
She’s likely to be ill, moithered as she is from mornin’ to night, 
wi’ folks as had better be elsewhere.” 

“ What do you mean by behaving in this way ? ” 


SCENES OF CLEFICAL LIFE, 


6 1 


“ Mean ? Why I mean as the missis is a-slavin* her life 
out an’ a-sittin’ up o’ nights, for folks as are better able to 
wait of her^ i’stid o’ lyin’ a-bed an’ doin’ nothin’ all the blessed 
day, but mek work.” 

“ Leave the room, and don’t be insolent.” 

“ Insolent ! I’d better be insolent than like what some 
folks is, — a-livin’ on other folks, an’ bringin’ a bad name on 
’em into the bargain.” 

Here Nanny flung out of the room, leaving the lady to di- 
gest this unexpected breakfast at her leisure. 

The Countess was stunned for a few minutes, but when 
she began to recall Nanny’s words, there was no possibility 
of avoiding very unpleasant conclusions from them, or of fail- 
ing to see her position at the Vicarage in an entirely new 
light. The interpretation, too, of Nanny’s allusion to a “ bad 
name ” did not lie out of the reach of the Countess’s imagi- 
ation, and she saw the necessity of quilting Shepperton with- 
out delay. Still, she would like to wait for her brother’s letter 
— no — she would ask Milly to forward it to her — still better, 
she would go at once to London, inquire her brother’s ad- 
dress at his banker’s, and go to see him without preliminary. 

She went up to Milly’s room, and, after kisses and in- 
quiries, said — “ I find on consideration, dear Milly, from the 
letter I had yesterday, that I must bid you good-by and go 
up to London at once. But you must not let me leave you 
ill, you naughty thing.” 

“ Oh no,” said Milly, who felt as if a load had been taken 
off her back, “ I shall be very well in an hour or two. In- 
deed, I’m much better now. You will want me to help you to 
pack. But you won’t go for two or three days ? ” 

“ Yes, I must go to-morrow. But I shall not let you help 
me to pack, so don’t entertain any unreasonable projects, but 
lie still. Mr. Brand is coming, Nanny says.” 

The news was not an unpleasant surprise to Mr. Barton 
when he came home, though he was able to express more re- 
gret at the idea of parting than Milly could summon to her 
lips. He retained more of his original feeling for the Count- 
ess than Milly did, for women never betray themselves to 
men as they do to each other ; and the Rev. Amos had not a 
keen instinct for character. But he felt that he was being 
relieved from a difficulty, and in a way that was the easiest 
for him. Neither he nor Milly suspected that it was Nanny 
who had cut the knot for them, for the Countess took caie to 
give no sign on that subject. As for Nanny, .H.e w^as jicr- 


AMOS BARTON, 


6l 


fectly aware of the relation between cause and effect in the 
affair, and secretly chuckled over her outburst of “ sauce ” 
as the best morning’s work she had ever done. 

So, on Friday morning, a fly was seen standing at the 
Vicarage gate with the Countess’s boxes packed upon it ; and 
presently that lady herself was seen getting into the vehicle. 
After a last shake of the hand to Mr. Barton, and last kisses 
to Milly and the children, the door was closed ; and as the 
fly rolled off, the party at the Vicarage gate caught a last 
glimpse of the handsome Countess leaning and waving kisses 
from the carriage window. Jet’s little black phiz was also 
seen, and doubtless he had his thoughts and feelings on 
the occasion, but he kept them strictly within his own bosom. 

The schoolmistress opposite witnessed this departure, and 
lost no time in telling it to the schoolmaster, who again com- 
municated the news to the landlord of “ The Jolly Colliers,” 
at the close of the morning school-hours. Nanny poured 
the joyful tidings into the ear of Mr. Farquhar’s footman, who 
happened to call with a letter, and Mr. Brand carried them to 
all the patients he visited that morning, after calling on Mrs. 
Barton. So that, before Sunday, it was very generally known 
in Shepperton parish that the Countess Czerlaski had left the 
Vicarage. 

The Countess had left, but alas, the bills she had contrib- 
uted to swell still remained ; so did the exiguity of the chil- 
dren’s clothing, which also was partly an indirect consequence 
of her presence ; and so, too, did the coolness and alienation 
in the parishioners, which could not at once vanish before 
the fact of her departure. The Rev. Amos was not excul- 
pated — the past was not expunged. But what was worse 
than all, Milly’s health gave frequent cause for alarm, and 
the prospect of baby’s birth was overshadowed by more 
than the usual fears. The birth came prematurely, about 
six weeks after the Countess’s departure, but Mr. Brand 
gave favorable reports to all inquirers on the following day, 
which was Saturday. On Sunday, after morning service, 
Mrs. Hackit called at the Vicarage to inquire how Mrs. Bar- 
ton was, and was invited up stairs to see her. Milly lay 
placid and lovely in her feebleness, and held out her hand to 
Mrs. Hackit with a beaming smile. It was very pleasant to 
her to see her old friend unreserved and cordial once more. 
The seven months’ baby was very tiny and very red, but 
“handsome is that handsome does ” — he was pronounced to 
be “ doing well,” and Mrs. Hackit went home gladdened at 
heart to think that the perilous hour was over. 


64 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


Presently’ the pony-carriage was heard ; and Amos, mo- 
tiorJng :o Mrs. Hackit to follow him, left the room. On their 
way down stairs, she suggested that the carriage should 
remain to take them away again afterwards, and Amos as- 
sented. 

There they stood in the melancholy sitting-room — the five 
sweet children, from Patty to Chubby — all, with their inath- 
ers eyes — all, except Patty, looking up with a vague fear at 
their father as he ontered. Patty understood the great sorrow 
that was come upon them, and tried to check her sobs as she 
heard her papa’s footsteps. 

“ My children,” said Amos, taking Chubby in his arms, 
“ God is going to take away your dear mamma from us. She 
wants to see you to say good-by. You must try to be very 
good and not cry.” 

He could say no more, but turned round to see if Nanny 
was there with Walter, and then led the way up stairs, lead- 
ing Dickey with the other hand. Mrs. Hackit followed with 
Sophy and Patty, and then came Nanny with Walter and 
Fred. 

It seemed as if Milly had heard the little footsteps on the 
stairs, for when Amos entered her eyes were wide open, eag- 
erly looking towards the door. They all stood by the bedside 
— Amos nearest to her, holding Chubby and Dickey. But she 
motioned for Patty to come first, and clasping the poor pale 
child by the hand, said, 

“ Patty, I’m going away from you. Love your papa. Com- 
fort him ; and take care of your little brothers and sisters. 
God will help you.” 

Patty stood perfectly quiet, and said, “ Yes, mamma.” 

The mother motioned wdth her pallid lips for the dear 
child to lean towards her and kiss her ; and then Patty’s 
great anguish overcame her, and she burst into sobs. Amos 
drew her towards him and pressed her head gently to him, 
while Milly beckoned Fred and Sophy, and said to them more 
faintly, 

“ Patty will try to be your mamma when I am gone, my 
darlings. You will be good and not vex her.” 

They leaned towards her, and she stroked their fair heads, 
and kissed their tear-stained cheeks. They cried because 
mamma was ill and papa looked so unhappy ; but they 
thought, perhaps next week things would be as they used to 
be again. 

The little ones were lifted on the bed to kiss her. Little 


AMOS BARTON. 


6S 

Walter said, “ Mamma, mamma,” and stretched out his fat 
arms and smiled ; and Chubby seemed gravely wondering ; 
but Dickey, who had been looking fixedly at her, with lip 
hanging down, ever since he came into the room, now seemed 
suddenly pierced with the idea that mamma was going away 
somewhere ; his little heart swelled and he cried aloud. 

Then Mrs. Hackit and Nanny took them all away. Patty 
at first begged to stay at home and not go to Mrs. Bond’s 
again ; but when Nanny reminded her that she had better go 
to take care of the younger ones, she submitted at once, and 
they were all packed in the pony-carriage once more. 

Milly kept her eyes shut for some time after the children 
were gone. Amos had sunk on his knees, and was holding 
her hand while he watched her face. By and by she opened 
her eyes, and drawing him close to her, whispered slowly, 

“ My dear — dear — husband — you have been — very — good 
tome. You — have — made me — very — happy.” 

She spoke no more for many hours. They watched her 
breathing becoming more and more difficult, until evening 
deepened into night, and until midnight was past. About half 
past twelve she seemed to be trying to speak, and they leaned 
to catch her words. 

“ Music — music — didn’t you hear it ? ” 

Amos knelt by the bed and held her hand in his. He did 
not believe in his sorrow. It was a bad dream. He did not 
know when she was gone. But Mr. Brand, whom Mrs. 
Hackit had sent for before twelve o’clock, thinking that Mr. 
Barton might probably need his help, now came up to him, 
and said, 

“ She feels no more pain now. Come, my dear sir, come 
with me.” 

“ She isn’t shrieked the poor desolate man, strug- 

gling to shake off Mr. Brand, who had taken him by the arm. 
But his wear}?", weakened frame was not equal to resistance, 
and he was dragged out of the room. • 


CHAPTER IX. 

They laid her in the grave — the sweet mother with her 
baby in her arms — while the Christmas snow lay thick upon 

5 


66 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


the graves. It was Mr. Cleves who buried her. On the first 
news of Mr. Barton’s calamity, he had ridden over from Trip- 
plegate to beg that he might be made of some use, and his 
silent grasp of Amos’s hand had penetrated like the painful 
thrill of life-recovering warmth to the poor benumbed heart of 
the stricken man. 

The snow lay thick upon the graves, and the day was cold 
and dreary ; but there was many a sad eye watching that 
black procession as it passed from the Vicarage to the church, 
and from the church to the open grave. There were men and 
women standing in that churchyard who had bandied vulgar 
jests about their pastor, and who had lightly charged him with 
sin ; but now, when they saw him following the coffin, pale and 
haggard, he was consecrated anew by his great sorrow, and 
they looked at him with respectful pity. 

All the children were there, for Amos had willed it so, 
thinking that some dim memory of that sacred moment might 
remain even with little Walter, and link itself with what he 
would hear of his sweet mother in after years. He himself 
led Patty and Dickey ; then came Sophy and Fred ; Mr. 
Brand had begged to carry Chubby, and Nanny followed with 
Walter. They made a circle round the grave while the coffin 
was being lowered. Patty alone of all the children felt that 
mamma was in that coffin, and that a new and sadder life 
had begun for papa and herself. She was pale and trembling, 
but she clasped his hand more firmly as the coffin went down, 
and gave no sob. Fred and Sophy, though they were only 
two ami three years younger, and though they had seen 
mamma in her coffin, seemed to themselves to be looking at 
some strange show. They had not learned to decipher that 
terrible handwriting of human destiny, illness and death. 
Dickey had rebelled against his black clothes, until he w'as 
told that it would be naughty to mamma not to put them on, 
when he at once submitted ; and now, though he had heard 
Nanny say that mamma was in heaven, he had a vague notion 
that she would come home again to-morrow, and say he had 
been a good boy, and let him empty her work-box. He stood 
close to his father, with great rosy cheeks, and wide open blue 
eyes, looking first up at Mr. Cleves and then down at the 
coffin, and thinking he and Chubby would play at that w'hen 
they got home. 

The burial was over, and Amos turned with his children 
to re-enter the house — the house where, an hour ago, Milly’s 
dear body lay, where the windows were half-darkened, an I 


AMOS BARTON, 


67 

sorrow seemed to nave a hallowed precinct for itself, shut 
out from the world. But now she was gone ; the broad srrow- 
reliected daylight was in all the rooms ; the Vicarage again 
seemed part of the common working-day world, and Amos, 
for the first time, felt that he was alone — that day after day, 
month after month, year after year, would have to be lived 
through without Milly’s love. Spring would come and she 
would not be there ; summer, and she would not be there ; 
and he would never have her again with him by the fireside 
in the long evenings. The seasons all seemed irksome to his 
thoughts ; and how dreary the sunshiny days that would be 
sure to come ! She was gone from him ; and he could never 
show her his love any more, never make up for omissions in 
the past by filling future days with tenderness. 

Oh the anguish of that thought that we can never atone 
to our dead for the stinted affection we gave them, for the 
light answers we returned to their plaints or their pleadings, 
for the little reverence we showed to that sacred human soul 
that lived so close to us, and was the divinest thing God had 
given us to know ! 

Amos Barton had been an affectionate husband, and while 
Milly was with him, he was never visited by the thought that 
perhaps his sympathy with her was not quick and watchful 
enough ; but now he re-lived all their life together, with that 
terrible keenness of memory and imagination which bereave- 
ment gives, and he felt as if his very love needed a pardon 
for its poverty and selfishness. 

No outward solace could counteract the bitterness of this 
inward woe. But outward solace came. Cold faces looked 
kind again, and parishioners turned over in their minds what 
they could best do to help their pastor. Mr. Oldinport wrote 
to express his syri'.pathy, and enclosed another twenty-pound 
note, begging that he might be permitted to contribute in this 
way to the relief of Mr. Barton’s mind from pecuniary anxie- 
ties, under the pressure of a grief which all his parishioners 
must share ; and offering his interest towards placing the two 
eldest girls in a school expressly founded for clergymen’s 
daughters. Mr. Cleves succeeded in collecting thirty pounds 
among his richer clerical brethren, and, adding ten pounds 
himself, sent the sum to Amos, with the kindest and most 
delicate words of Christian fellowship and manly friendship. 
Miss Jackson forgot old grievances, and came to stay some 
months with Milly’s children, bringing such material aid as 
she could spare from her small income. These were sub- 


68 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


stantiai helps, which relieved Amos from the pressure of his 
money difficulties ; and the friendly attentions, the kind pres- 
sure of the hand, the cordial looks he met with everywhere in 
his parish, made him feel that the' fatal frost which had set- 
tled on his pastoral duties, during the Countess’s residence 
at the Vicarage, was completely thawed, and that the hearts 
of his parishioners were once more open to him. 

No one breathed the Countess’s name now : for Milly’s 
memory hallowed her husband, as of old the place was hal- 
lowed on which an angel from God had alighted. 

When the spring came, Mrs. Hackit begged that she might 
have Dickey to stay with her, and great was the enlargement 
of Dickey’s experience from that visit. Every morning he 
was allowed — being well wrapt up as to his chest by Mrs. 
Hackit’s own hands, but very bare and red as to his legs — 
to run loose in the cow and poultry yard, to persecute the 
turkey-cock by satirical imitations of his gobble-gobble, and 
to put difficult questions to the groom as to the reasons why 
horses had four legs, and other transcendental matters. 
Then Mr. Hackit would take Dickey up on horseback when 
he rode round his farm, and Mrs. Hackit had a large plum- 
cake in cut, ready to meet incidental attacks of hunger. So 
that Dickey had considerably modified his views as to the 
desirability of Mrs. Hackit’s kisses. 

The Misses Farquhar made particular pets of Fred and 
Sophy, to whom they undertook to give lessons twice a week 
in writing and geography ; and Mrs. Farquhar devised many 
treats for the little ones. Patty’s treat was to stay at home, 
or walk about with her papa ; and when he sat by the fire in 
an evening, after the other children had gone to bed, she 
would bring a stool, and placing it against his feet, would sit 
down upon it and lean her head against his knee. Then his 
hand would rest on that fair head, and he would feel that 
Milly’s love was not quite gone out of his life. 

So the time wore on till it was May again, and the church 
was quite finished and reopened in all its new splendor, and 
Mr. Barton was devoting himself with more vigor than ever 
to his parochial duties. But one morning — -it was a very 
bright morning, and evil tidings sometimes like to fly in the 
finest weather — there came a letter for Mr. Barton, addressed 
in the Vicar’s handwriting. Amos opened it with some anx- 
iety — somehow or other he had a presentiment of evil. The 
letter contained the announcement that Mr. Carpe had re- 
solved on coming to reside at Shepperton, and that, conse- 


A A/OS BARTOA/. 


69 

quently, in six months from that lime Mro Barton’s duties as 
curate in that parish would be closed. 

Oh, it was hard! Just when Shepperton had become the 
place where he most wished to stay — where he had friends 
who knew his sorrows — where he lived close to Milly’s grave. 
To part from that grave seemed like parting with Milly a 
second time ; for Amos was one who clung to all the material 
links between his mind and the past. His imagination was 
not vivid, and required the stimulus of actual perception. 

It roused some bitter feeling, too, to think that Mr. Carpe’s 
wish to reside at Shepperton was merely a pretext for re- 
moving Mr. Barton, in order that he might ultimately give the 
curacy of Shepperton to his own brother-in-law, who was 
known to be wanting a new position. 

Still it must be borne ; and the painful business of seeking 
another curacy must be set about without loss of time. After 
the lapse of some months, Amos was obliged to renounce the 
hope of getting one at all near Shepperton, and he at length 
resigned himself to accepting one in a distant county. The 
parish was in a large manufacturing towm, where his walks 
would lie among noisy streets and dingy alleys, and where the 
children would have no garden to play in, no pleasant farm- 
house to visit. 

It was another blow inflicted on the bruised man. 


CHAPTER X. 

At length the dreaded week was come, when Amos and 
his children must leave Shepperton. There was general regret 
among the parishioners at his departure : not that any one of 
them thought his spiritual gifts pre-eminent, or was conscious 
of great ediflcation from his ministry. But his recent troubles 
had called out their better sympathies, and that is always a 
source of love. Amos failed to touch the spring of goodness 
by his sermons, but he touched it effectually by his sorrows ; 
and there was now a real bond between him and his flock. 

“ My heart aches for them poor motherless children,” said 
Mrs. Hackit to her husband, “ a-going among strangers, and 
into a nasty town, w^here there’s no good victuals to be had, 
and you must pay dear to get bad uns.” 


70 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


Mrs. Hackit had a vague notion of a town life as a com- 
bination of dirty backyards, measly pork, and dingy linen. 

The same sort of sympathy was strong among the poorer 
class of parishioners. Old stiff-jointed Mr. Tozer, who was 
still able to earn a little by gardening “jobs,” stopped Mrs. 
Cramp, the charwoman, on her way home from the Vicarage, 
where she had been helping Nanny to pack up the day before 
the departure, and inquired very particularly into Mr. Barton’s 
prospects. 

“Ah, poor mon,” he was heard to say, “ I’m sorry for un. 
He hedn’t much here, but he’ll be wuss off theer. Half a 
loaf’s better nor ne’er un.” 

The sad good-bys had all been said before that last even- 
ing ; and after all the packing was done and all the arrange- 
ments were made, Amos felt the oppression of that blank in- 
terval in which one has nothing left to think of but the dreary 
future — the separation from the loved and familiar, and the 
chilling entrance on the new and strange. In every parting 
there is an image of death. 

Soon after ten o’clock, when he had sent Nanny to bed, 
that she might have a good night’s rest before the fatigues of 
the morrow, he stole softly out to pay a last visit to Milly’s 
grave. It was a moonless night, but the sky was thick with 
stars, and their light was enough to show that the grass had 
grown long on the grave, and that there was a tombstone 
telling in bright letters, on a dark ground, that beneath were 
deposited the remains of Amelia, the beloved wife of Amos 
Barton, who died in the thirty-fifth year of her age, leaving a 
husband and six children to lament her loss. The final words 
of the inscription were, “ Thy will be done.” 

“ The husband was now advancing towards the dear mound 
from which he was so soon to be parted, perhaps forever. He 
stood a few minutes reading over and over again the v;ords 
on the tombstone, as if to assure himself that all the happy 
and unhappy past was a reality. For love is frightened at the 
intervals of insensibility and callousness that encroach by little 
and little on the dominion of grief, and it makes efforts to re- 
call the keenness of the first anguish. 

Gradually, as his eye dwelt on the words, “ Amelia, the be- 
loved wife,” the waves of feeling swelled within his soul, and 
he threw himself on the grave, clasping it with his arms, and 
kissing the cold turf. 

“ Milly, Milly, dost thou hear me ? I didn’t love thee 


AMOS BARTON. 


71 

enough — I wasn’t tender enough to thee — but I think of it all 
now.” 

The sobs came and choked his utterance, and the warm 
tears fell. 


CONCLUSION. 

Only once again in his life has Amos Barton visited Milly’s 
grave. It was in the calm and softened light of an autumnal 
afternoon, and he was not alone. He held on his arm a young 
woman, with a sweet, grave face, which strongly recalled the 
expression of Mrs. Barton’s, but was less lovely in form 
and color. She was about thirty, but there were some pre- 
mature lines round her mouth and eyes, which told of early 
anxiety. 

Amos himself was much changed. His thin circlet of hair 
was nearly white, and his walk was no longer firm and up- 
right. But his glance was calm, and even cheerful, and his 
neat linen told of a woman’s care. Milly did not take all her 
love from the earth when she died. She had left some of it in 
Patty’s heart. 

All the other children were now grown up, and had gone 
their several ways. Dickey, you will be glad to hear, had 
shown remarkable talents as an engineer. His cheeks are 
still ruddy, in spite of mixed mathematics, and his eyes are 
still large and blue ; but in other respects his person would 
present no marks of identification for his friend Mrs. Hackit, 
if she were to see him ; especially now that her eyes must be 
grown very dim, with the wear of more than twenty additional 
years. He is nearly six feet high, and has a proportionately 
broad chest ; he wears spectacles, and rubs his large white 
hands through a mass of shaggy brown hair. But I am sure 
you have no doubt that Mr. Richard Barton is a thoroughly 
good fellow, as well as a man of talent, and you will be glad 
any day to shake hands with him, for his own sake as well as 
his mother’s. 

Patty alone remains by her father’s side, and makes the 
evening sunshine of his life. 


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MR. GILFIL’S LOVE-STORY, 


CHAPTER I. 

When old Mr. Gilfil died, thirty years ago, there was gen- 
eral sorrow in Shepperton ; and if black cloth had not been 
hung round the pulpit and reading-desk, by order of his 
nephew and principal legatee, the parishioners would certainly 
have subscribed the necessary sum out of their own pockets, 
rather than allow such a tribute of respect to be wanting. All 
the farmers’ wives brought out their black bombazines ; and 
Mrs. Jennings, at the Wharf, by appearing the first Sunday 
after Mr. Gilfil’s death in her salmon-colored ribbons and 
green shawl, excited the severest remark. To be sure, Mrs. 
Jennings was a new-comer, and town-bred, so that she could 
hardly be expected to have very clear notions of what was 
proper ; but, as Mrs. Higgins observed in an undertone to 
Mrs. Parrot when they were coming out of church, “ Her hus- 
band, who’d been born i’ the parish, might ha’ told her better.” 
An unreadiness to put on black on all available occasions, or 
too great an alacrity in putting it off, argued, in Mrs. Higgins’s 
opinion, a dangerous levity of character, and an unnatural in- 
sensibility to the essential fitness of things. 

“ Some folks can’t a-bear to put off their colors,” she re- 
marked ; “but that was never the way i’ mjy family. Why, 
Mrs. Parrot, from the time I was married, till Mr. Higgins 
died, nine year ago come Candlemas, I never was out o’ 
black two years together ! ” 

“ Ah,” said Mrs. Parrot, who was conscious of inferiority 
in this respect, “ there isn’t many families as have had so 
many deaths as yours, Mrs. Higgins.” 

Mrs. Higgins, who was an elderly widow, “ well left,” re- 
flected with complacency that Mrs. Parrot’s observation was 
no more than just, and that Mrs. Jennings very likely belonged 
to a family which had had no funerals to speak of. 

Even dirty Dame Fripp, who was a very rare church-goer, 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


74 

had been to Mrs. Hackit to beg a bit of old crape, and with 
this sign of grief pinned on her little coal-scuttle bonnet, was 
seen dropping her courtesy opposite the reading-desk. This 
manifestation of respect towards Mr. Gilli ’s memory on the 
part of Dame Fripp had no theological bearing whatever. It 
was due to an event which had occurred some years back, and 
which, 1 am sorry to say, had left that grimy old lady as in- 
different to the means of grace as ever. Dame Fripp kept 
leeches, and was understood to have such remarkable influ- 
ence over those wilful animals in inducing them to bite under 
the most unpromising circumstances, that though her own 
leeches were usually rejected, from a suspicion that they had 
lost their appetite, she herself was constantly called in to 
apply the more lively individuals furnished from Mr. Pilgrim’s 
surgery, when, as was very often the case, one of that clever 
man’s paying patients was attacked with inflammation. Thus 
Dame Fripp, in addition to “ property ” supposed to yield 
her no less than half a crown a week, was in the receipt of 
professional fees, the gross amount of which was vaguely esti- 
mated by her neighbors as “ pouns an’ pouns.” Moreover, 
she drove a brisk trade in lollipop with epicurean urchins, who 
recklessly purchased that luxury at the rate of two hundred 
per cent. Nevertheless, with all these notorious sources of 
income, the shameless old woman constantly pleaded poverty, 
and begged for scraps at Mrs. Hackit’s, who, though she al- 
w'ays said Mrs. Fripp was “ as false as two folks,” and no better 
than a miser and a heathen, had yet a leaning towards her as 
an old neighbor. 

“ There’s that case-hardened old Judy a coming after the 
tea-leaves again,” Mrs. Hackit would say: “an’ I’m fool 
enough to give ’em her, though Sally wants ’em all the while 
to sweep the floors with ! ” 

Such was Dame Fripp, whom Mr. Gilfil, riding leisurely 
in top-boots and spurs from doing duty at Knebley one warm 
Sunday afternoon, observed sitting in the dry ditch near her 
cottage, and by her side a large pig, who, with that ease and 
confidence belonging to perfect friendship, was lying with his 
head in her lap, and making no effoit to play the agreeable 
beyond an occasional grunt. 

“ Why, Mrs. Fripp,” said the vicar, “ I didn’t know you 
had such a fine pig. You’ll have some rare flitches at 
Christmas ! ” 

“Eh, God forbid ! My son gev him me two ’ear ago, an’ 
he’s been company to me iver sin’. I couldn’t find i’ my 


MR. G/LFWS LOVE-STORY. 


IS 

heart to part wi’m, if I niver knowed the taste o’ bacon-fat 
agin/’ 

Why, he’ll eat his head off, and yours too. How can 
yon go on keeping a pig, and making nothing by him ? ” 

“ Oh, he picks a bit hisself wi’ rootin’, and I dooant mind 
doing wi’out to gi’ him summat. A bit o’ coompany’s meat 
an’ drink too, an’ he follers me about, and grunts when I 
spake to ’m, just like a Christian.” 

Mr. Gilfil laughed, and 1 am obliged to admit that he said 
good-by to Dame Fripp without asking her why she had not 
been to church, or making the slightest effort for her spiritual 
edification. But the next, day he ordered his man David to 
take her a great piece of bacon, with a message, saying, the 
parson wanted to make sure that Mrs. Fripp would know the 
taste of bacon-fat again. So, when Mr. Gilfil died. Dame 
Fripp manifested her gratitude and reverence in the simple 
dingy fashion I have mentioned. 

You already suspect that the Vicar did not shineHn the 
more spiritual functions of his office ; and indeed, the utmost 
I can say for him in this respect is, that he performed those 
functions with undeviating atte‘ntion to brevity and despatch. 

He had a large heap of short sermons, rather yellow and 
worn at the edges, from which he took two every Sunday, 
securing perfect impartiality in the selection by taking them 
as they came, without reference to topics ; and having preached 
one of these sermons at Shepperton in the morning, he 
mounted his horse and rode hastily with the other in his 
pocket to Knebley, where he officiated in a wonderful little 
church with a checkered pavement which had once rung to 
the iron tread of military monks, with coats of arms in clusters 
on the lofty roof, marble warriors and their wives without noses 
occupying a large proportion of the area, and the twelve apos- 
tles with their heads very much on one side, holding didactic 
ribbons, painted in l^resco on the walls. Here, in an absence 
of mind to which he was prone, Mr. Gilfil would sometimes 
forget to take off his spurs before putting on his surplice, 
and only become aware of the omission by feeling something 
mysteriously tugging at the skirts of that garment as he 
stepped into the reading-desk. But the Knebley farmers 
would as soon have thought of criticising the moon as their 
pastor. He belonged to the course of nature, like markets 
and toll-gates and dirty bank-notes ; and being a vicar, his 
claim on their veneration had never been counteracted by an 
exasperating claim on their pockets. Some of them, who did 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


76 

not indulge in the superfluity of a covered cart without 
springs, had dined half an hour earlier than usual — that is to 
say at twelve o’clock — in order to have time for their long 
walk through miry lanes, and present themselves duly in their 
places at two o’clock, when Mr. Oldinport and Lady Felicia, 
to whom Knebley Church was a sort of family temple, made 
their way among the bows and courtesies of their dependents 
to a carved and canopied pew in the chancel, diffusing as 
they went a delicate odor of Indian roses on the unsusceptible 
nostrils of the congregation. 

'rhe farmers’, wives and children sat on the dark oaken 
benches, but the husbands usually chose the distinctiv'e dig- 
nity of a stall under one of the twelve apostles, where, when 
the alternation of prayers and responses had given place to 
the agreeable monotony of the sermon. Paterfamilias might 
be seen or heard sinking into a pleasant doze, from which he 
infallibly woke up at the sound of the concluding doxology. 
And then they made their way back again through the miry 
lanes, perhaps almost as much the better for this simple 
weekly tribute to what they know of good and right, as many 
a more wakeful and critical congregation of the present day. 

Mr. Gilfil, too, used to make his way home in the later years 
of his life, for he had given up the habit of dining at Knebley 
Abbey on the Sunday, having, I am sorry to say, had a very 
bitter quarrel with Mr. Oldinport, the cousin and predecessor 
of the Mr. Oldinport who flourished in the Rev. Amos Bar- 
ton’s time. That quarrel was a sad pity, for the two had had 
many a good day’s hunting together when they were younger, 
and in those friendly times not a few members of the hunt 
envied Mr. Oldinport the excellent terms he was on with his 
vicar; for, as Sir Jasper Sitwell observed, “next to a man“s 
wife, there’s nobody can be such an infernal plague to you as 
a parson, always under your nose on your own estate.” 

I fancy the original difference which led to the rupture 
was very slight ; but Mr. Gilfil was of an extremely caustic 
turn, his satire having a flavor ^of originality which was quite 
wanting in his sermons ; and as Mr. Oldinport’s armor of con- 
scious virtue presented some considerable and conspicuous 
gaps, the Vicar’s keen-edged retorts probably made a few 
incisions too deep to be forgiven. Such at least was the view 
of the case presented by Mr, Hackit, who knew as much of 
the matter as any third person. For, the very week after the 
quarrel, when presiding at the annual dinner of the Associa- 
tion for the Prosecution of Felons, held at the Oldinport Arms, 


M/^. GILFIVS L O VE-S TOR Y. 


77 


he contributed an additional zest to the conviviality on that 
occasion by informing the company that “ the parson had 
given the squire a lick with the rough side of his tongue.” 
The detection of the person or persons who had driven off 
Mr. Parrot’s heifer, could hardly have been more welcome 
news to the Shepperton tenantry, with whom Mr. Oldinport 
was in the worst odor as a landlord, having kept up his rents 
in spite of falling prices, and not being in the least stung to 
emulation by paragraphs in the provincial newspapers, stating 
that the Honorable Augustus Purwell, or Viscount Blethers, 
had made a return of ten per cent, on their last rent day. The 
fact was, Mr. Oldinport had not the slightest intention of 
standing for Parliament, whereas he had the strongest inten- 
tion of adding to his unentailed estate. Hence, to the Shep- 
perton farmers it was as good as lemon with their grog to 
know that the vicar had thrown out sarcasms against the 
Squire’s charities, as little better than those of the man who 
stole a goose, and gave away the giblets in alms. For Shep- 
perton, you observe, was in a state of Attic culture compared 
with Knebley ; it had turnpike roads and a public opinion, 
whereas, in the Boeotian Knebley, men’s minds and wagons 
alike moved in the deepest of ruts, and the landlord was only 
grumbled at as a necessary and unalterable evil, like the 
weather, the weevils, and the turnip-fly. 

Thus in Shepperton this breach with Mr. Oldinport tended 
only to heighten that good understanding which the Vicar had 
always enjoyed with the rest of his parishioners, from the 
generation whose children he had christened a quarter of a 
century before, down to that hopeful generation represented 
by little Tommy Bond, who had recently quitted frocks and 
trowsers for the severe simplicity of a tight suit of corduroys, 
relieved by numerous brass buttons. Tommy was a saucy 
boy, impervious to all impressions of reverence, and exces- 
sively addicted to humming-tops and marbles, with which 
recreative resources he was in the habit of immoderately dis- 
tending the pockets of his corduroys. One day, spinning his 
top-on the garden-w^alk, and seeing the Vicar advance directly 
towards it, at that exciting moment when it was beginning to 
“ sleep ” magnificently, he shouted out with all the force of 
his lungs — “ Stop ! don’t knock my top down, now ! ” From 
that day “ little Corduroys ” had been an especial favorite 
wdth Mr. Gilfil, w^ho delighted to provoke his ready scorn and 
wonder by putting questions which gave Tommy the mean- 
est opinion of his intellect. 


;8 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 

“Well, little Corduroys, have they milked the geese to* 
day ? ” 

“ Milked the geese ! why, they don’t milk the geese, you 
silly ! ” 

“ No ! dear heart ! why, how do the goslings live, then ? ” 

The nutriment of goslings rather transcending Tommy’s 
observations in natural history, he feigned to understand this 
question in an exclamatory rather than an interrogatory sense, 
and became absorbed in winding up his top. 

“ Ah, I see you don’t know how the goslings live ! But 
did you notice how it rained sugar-plums yesterday ” (Here 
Tommy became attentive.) “ Why, they fell into my pocket 
as I rode along. You look in my pocket and see if they 
didn’t.” 

Tommy, without waiting to discuss the alleged antecedent, 
lost no lime in ascertaining the presence of the agreeable 
consequent, for he had a well-founded belief in the advan- 
tages of diving into the Vicar’s pocket. Mr. Gilfil called it 
his wonderful pocket, because, as he delighted to tell the 
“ young shavers ” and “ two-shoes ” — so he called all little 
boys and girls — whenever he put pennies into it, they turned 
into sugar-plums or gingerbread, or some other nice thing, i 
Indeed, little Bessie Parrot, a flaxen-headed “two-shoes,” i 
very white and fat as to her neck, always had the admirable 
directness and sincerity to salute him with the question — 

“ What zoo dot in zoo pottet ? ” 

You can imagine, then, that the christening dinners were 
none the less merry for the presence of the parson. The 
farmers relished his society particularly, for he could no't only 
smoke his pipe, and season the details of parish affairs with i 
abundance of caustic jokes and proverbs, but, as Mr. Bond • 
often said, no man knew more than the Vicar about the breed 
of cows and horses. He had grazing-land of his own about ] 
five miles off, which a bailiff, ostensibly a tenant, farmed 1 
under his direction ; and to ride backward, and forward, and j 
look after the buying and selling of stock, was the old gentle- \ 
man’s chief relaxation, now his hunting-days were over. To ! 
hear him discussing the respective merits of the Devonshire j 
breed and the short-horns, or the last foolish decision of the i 
magistrates about a pauper, a superficial observer might have ' 
seen little difference, beyond his superior shrewdness, be- ; 
tween the Vicar and his bucolic parishioners ; for it was his ' 
habit to approximate his accent and mode of speech to theirs, ' 
doubtless because he thous-ht it a mere frustration of the pur i 


MR. GILFIUS L O VE-S TOR K 


79 


poses of language to talk of “ shear-hogs ” and “ ewes ” to 
men who habitually said “ sharrags ” and “yowes/’ Never- 
theless the farmers themselves were perfectly aware of the 
distinction between them and the parson, and had not at all 
the less belief in him as a gentleman and a clergyman for his 
easy speech and familiar manners. Mrs. Parrot smoothed 
her apron and set her cap right with the utmost solicitude 
when she saw the Vicar coming, made him her deepest 
courtesy, and every Christmas had a fat turkey ready to send 
him with her “ duty.” And in the most gossiping colloquies 
with Mr. Gilfil, you might have observed that both men and 
women “ minded their words,” and never became indifferent 
to his approbation. 

The same respect attended him in his strictly clerical 
functions. The benefits of baptism were supposed to be 
somehow bound up with Mr. Gilfil’s personality, so metaphys- 
ical a distinction as that between a man and his office being, 
as yet, quite foreign to the mind of a good Shepperton 
Churchman;, savoring, he would have thought, of Dissent on 
the very face of it. Miss Selina Parrot put off her marriage 
a whole month when Mr. Gilfil had an attack of rheumatism, 
rather than be married in a makeshift manner by the Milby 
curate. 

“ We’ve had a very good sermon this morning,” was the 
frequent remark, after hearing one of the old yellow series, 
heard with all the more satisfaction because it had been 
heard for the twentieth time ; for to minds on the Shepperton 
level it is repetition, not novelty, that produces the strongest 
effect, and phrases, like tunes, are a long time making them- 
selves at home in the brain. 

Mr. Gilfil's sermons, as you may imagine, were not of a 
highly doctrinal, still less of a polemical, cast. They perhaps 
did not search the conscience very powerfully ; for you re- 
member that to Mrs. Patten, who had listened to them thirty 
years, tlie announcement that she was a sinner appeared 
an uncivil heresy ; but on the other hand, they made no un- 
reasonable demand on the Shepperton intellect — amounting, 
indeed, to little more than an expansion of the concise thesis, 
that those who do wrong will find it the worse for them, and 
those who do well will find it the better for them ; the nature 
of wrong-doing being exposed in special sermons against 
lying, backbiting, anger, slothfulness, and the like ; and well- 
doing being interpreted as honesty, truthfulness, charity, 
industry, and other common virtues, lying quite on the sur- 


8o 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


face of life, and having very little to do with deep spiritual 
doctrine. Mrs. Patten understood that if she turned out 
ill-crushed cheeses, a just retribution awaited her ; though, 
I fear, she made no. particular application of the sermon on 
backbiting. Mrs. Hackit expressed herself greatly edified 
by the sermon on honesty, the allusion to the unjust weight 
and deceitful balance having a peculiar lucidity for her, 
owing to a recent dispute with her grocer ; but I am not 
aware that she ever appeared to be much struck by the 
sermon on anger. 

As to any suspicion that Mr. Gilfil did not dispense the 
pure Gospel, or any strictures on his doctrine and mode of 
'delivery, such thoughts never visited the minds of the Shep- 
perton" parishioners— of those very parishioners who, ten or 
fifteen years later, showed themselves extremely critical of 
Mr. Barton’s discourses and demeanor. But in the interim 
they had tasted that dangerous fruit of the tree of knowledge 
— innovation, which is well known to open the eyes, even in 
an uncomfortable manner. At present to find fa«lt with the 
sermon was regarded as almost equivalent to finding fault 
with religion itself. One Sunday, Mr. Hackit’s nephew, 
Master Tom Stokes, a flippant town youth, greatly scan- 
dalized his excellent relatives by declaring that he could 
write as good a sermon as Mr. Gilfil’s ; whereupon Mr. 
Hackit sought to reduce the presumptous youth to utter 
confusion, by offering him a sovereign if he would fufil his 
vaunt. The sermon was written, however ; and though it 
was not admitted to be anywhere within reach of Mr. Gilfil’s,, 
it was yet so astonishingly like a sermon, having a text, three 
divisions, and a concluding exhortation beginning “ And now, 
my brethren,” that the sovereign, though denied formally, 
was bestowed informally, and the sermon was pronounced, 
when Master Stokes’s back was turned, to be “ an uncom- 
mon diver thing.” 

The Rev Mr. Pickard, indeed, of the Independent Meet- 
ing, had stated, in a sermon preached at Rotherby, for the 
reduction of a debt on New Zion, built, with an exuberance 
of faith and a deficiency of funds, by seceders from the or- 
iginal Zion, that he lived in a parish where the vicar was 
very “ dark ” and in the prayers he addressed to his own 
congregation, he was in the habit of comprehensively alluding 
to the parishioners outside the chapel walls, as those who, 
Gallio-like, “ cared for none of these things.” But I need 
hardly say that no church-goer ever came within earshot of 
Mr. Pickard. 


MR. GILFIVS LOVE-STORY. 


8i 


It was not to the Shepperton farmers only that Mr. Gilfil s 
society was acceptable ; he was a welcome guest at some of 
the best houses in that part of the country. Old Sir Jasper 
Sitwell would have been glad to see him every week ; and 
if you had seen him conducting Lady Sitwell in to dinner, or 
had heard him talking to her with quaint yet graceful gal- 
lantry, you would have inferred that the earlier period of his 
life had been past in more stately society than could be 
found in Shepperton, and that his slipshod chat and homely 
manners were but like weather-stains on a fine old block of 
marble, allowing you still to see here and there the fineness 
of the grain, and the delicacy of the original tint. But in 
his later years these visits became a little too troublesome 
to the old gentleman, and he was rarely to be found any- 
where of an evening beyond the bounds of his own parish — 
most frequently, indeed, by the side of his own sitting-room 
fire, smoking his pipe, and maintaining the pleasing antithesis 
of dryness and moisture by an occasional sip of gin-and- 
water. 

Here I am aware that I have run the risk of alienating alt 
my refined lady-readers, and utterly annihilating any curios- 
ity they may have felt to know the details of Mr. Gilfil’s love- 
story. “ Gin-and-water ! foh ! you may as well ask us to in- 
terest ourselves in the romance of a tallow-chandler, who min- 
gles the image of his beloved with short dips and moulds.” 

But in the first place, dear ladies, allow me to plead that 
gin-and-water, like obesity, or baldness, or the gout, does not 
^exclude a vast amount of antecedent romance, any more 
than the neatly-executed “fronts ” which you may some cay 
wear, will exclude your present possession of less expensive 
braids. Alas, alas ! we poor mortals are often little better 
than wood-ashes — there is small sign of the sap, and the leafy 
freshness, and the bursting buds that were once there ; but 
wherever we see wood-ashes, we know that all that early 
fulness of life must have been. I, at least, hardly ever look 
at a bent old man, or a wizened old woman, but I see also, 
with my mind’s eye, that Past of which they are the shrunken 
remnant, and the unfinished romance of rosy cheeks and 
bright eyes seems sometimes of feeble interest and signifiance, 
compared with that drama of hope and love which has long 
ago reached its catastrophe, and left the poor soul, like a dim 
and dusty stage, with all its sweet garden-scenes and fair 
perspectives overturned and thrust out of sight. 

In the second place, let me assure you that Mr. Gilfil’s po- 


82 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


tations of gin-and-water were quite moderate. His nose was 
not rubicund ; on the contrary, his white hair hung around 
a pale and venerable face. He drank it chiefly, I believe, be- 
cause it was cheap : and here I find myself alighting on an- 
other of the Vicar’s weaknesses, which if I had cared to 
paint a flattering portrait rather than a faithful one, I might 
have chosen to suppress. It is undeniable that, as the years 
advanced, Mr. Gilfil became, as Mr. Hackit observed, more 
and more “ close-fisted,” though the growing propensity showed 
itself rather in the parsimony of his personal habits, than in 
withholding help from the needy. He was saving — so he 
represented the matter to himself — for a nephew, the only son 
of a sister who had been the dearest object, all but one, in 
his life. “The lad,” he thought, “will have a nice little 
fortune to begin life with, and will bring his pretty young 
wife some day to see the spot where his old uncle lies. It 
will perhaps be all the better for his hearth that mine was 
lonely ” 

Mr. Gilfil was a bachelor, then ? 

* That is the conclusion to which you would probably 
have come if you had entered his sitting-room, where the 
bare tables, the large old-fashioned horse-hair chairs, and the 
threadbare Turkey carpet, perpetually fumigated with tobacco, 
seemed to tell a story of wifeless existence that was con- 
tradicted by no portrait, no piece of embroidery, no faded bit 
of pretty triviality, hinting of taper-fingers and small femi- 
nine ambitions. And it was here that Mr. Gilfil passed his 
evenings, seldom with other society than that of Ponto, his 
old brown setter, who, stretched out at full length on the rug 
with his nose between his fore-paws, would wrinkle his brows 
and lift up his eyelids every now and then, to exchange a 
glance of mutual understanding with his master. But there 
was a chamber in Shepperton Vicarage which told a differ- 
ent story from that bare and cheerless dining-room — a cham- 
ber never entered by any one besides Mr. Gilfil and old Mar- 
that the housekeeper, who, with David her husband as groom 
and gardener^ formed the Vicar’s entire establishment. The 
blinds of this chamber were always dowm, except once a 
quarter, when Martha entered that she might air and clean 
it. She always asked Mr. Gilfil for the key, which he kept 
locked up in his bureau, and returned it to him when she had 
finished her task. 

It was a touching sight that the daylight streamed in 
upon, as Martha drew aside the blinds and thick curtains, 


MR. GILFIUS LOVE-STORY, 


I and opened the Gothic casement of the oriole window ! On 
; the little dressing-table there was a dainty looking-glass in a 
carved and gilt frame ; bits of wax-candle were still in the 
branched sockets at the sides, and on one of these branches 
hung a little back lace kerchief ; a faded satin pin-cushion, 

’ with the pins rusted in it, a scent-bottle, and a large green 
fan, lay on the table ; and on a dressing-box by the side of 
1 the glass was a work-basket, and an unfinished baby-cap, 
yellow with age, lying in it. Two gowns, of a fashion long 
forgotten, were hanging on nails against the door, and a pair 
of tiny red slippers, with a bit of tarnished silver embroidery 
on them, were standing at the foot of the bed. Two or tliree 
water-color drawings, views of Naples, hung upon the walls ; 
and over the mantel-piece, above some bits of rare old china, 
two miniatures in oval frames. One of these miniatures rep- 
resented a young man about seven-and-twenty, with a san- 
guine complexion, full lips, and clear, candid gray eyes. The 
other was the likeness of a girl probably not more than eight- 
een, with small features, thin cheeks, a pale, southern-looking 
complexion, and large dark eyes. The gentleman wore pow- 
der ; the lady had her dark hair gathered away from lier 
face, and a little cap, with a cherry-colored bow set on the 
top of her head — a coquettish head-dress, but the eyes spoke 
of sadness rather than of coquetry. 

Such were the things that Martha had dusted and let the 
air upon four times a-year, ever since she was a blooming lass 
of twenty ; and she was now, in this last decade of Mr. Gilfirs 
life, unquestionably on the wrong side of fifty. Such was the 
locked-up chamber in Mr. GilfiFs house : a sort of visible sym- 
bol of the secret chamber in his heart, where he had long 
turned the key on early hopes and early sorrows, shutting up 
forever all the passion and the poetry of his life. 

There were not many people in the parish, besides Martha, 
who had any very distinct remembrance of Mr. GilfiFs wife, 
or indeed who knew anything of her, beyond the fact that 
there was a marble tablet, with a Latin inscription in memory 
of her, over the vicarage pew. The parishioners who were 
old enough to remember her arrival were not generally gifted 
with descriptive powers, and the utmost you could gather 
from them was, that Mrs. Gilfil looked like a “ furriner, wi’ 
such eyes, you can’t think, an’ a voice as went through you 
when she sung at church.” The one exception was Mrs. Pat- 
ten, whose strong memory and taste for personal narrative 
made her a great source of oral tradition in Shepperton. Mr. 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


84 

Hackit, who had not come into the parish until ten years 
after Mrs. Gilfil’s death, would often put old questions to Mrs. 
Patten for the sake of getting the old answers, which pleased 
him in the same way as passages from a favorite book, or the 
scenes of a familiar play, please more accomplished people. 

“ Ah, you remember well the Sunday as Mrs. Gilfil first 
come to church, eh, Mrs. Patten ? ” 

“ To be sure I do. It was a fine bright Sunday as ever 
was seen, just at the beginnin’ o’ hay harvest. Mr Tarbett 
preached that day, and Mr. Gilfil sat i’ the pew with his wife. 
I think I see him now, a-leading her up the aisle, an’ her head 
not reachin’ much above his elber : a little pale woman, with 
eyes as black as sloes, an’ yet lookin’ blank-like, as if she see’d 
nothing with ’em.” 

“ I warrant she had her weddin’ clothes on ?” said Mr. 
Hackit. 

“ Nothin’ partickler smart — on’y a white hat tied down 
under her chin, an’ a white Indy muslin gown. But you don’t 
know what Mr. Gilfil was in those times. He was fine an’ al- 
tered before you come into the parish. He’d a fresh color 
then, an’ a bright look wi’ his eyes, as did your heart good to 
see. He looked rare and happy that Sunday ; but somehow 
I’d a feelin’ as it wouldn’t last long. I’ve no opinion o’ fur- 
riners, Mr. Hackit, for I’ve travelled i’ their country with my 
lady in my time, an’ seen enough o’ their victuals' an’ their 
nasty ways.” 

“ Mrs. Gilfil come from It’ly, didn’t she ? ” 

“ I reckon she did, but never could rightly hear about 
that. Mr. Gilfil was niver to be spoke to about her, and no- 
body else hereabout knowed anythin’. Howiver, she must ha’ 
come over pretty young, for she spoke English as well as you 
an’ me. It’s them Italians as has such fine voices, an’ Mrs. 
Gilfil sung, you never beared the like. He brought her here 
to have tea with me one afternoon, and says he, in his jovial 
way, ‘Now, Mrs. Patten, I want Mrs. Gilfil to see the neatest 
house, and drink the best cup o’ tea, in all Shepperton ; you 
must show her your dairy and your cheese-room, and then "she 
shall sing you a song.’ An’ so she did ; an’ her voice seemed 
sometimes to fill the room ; an’ then it went low an’ soft, as 
if it was whisperin’ close to your heart like.” 

“ You never beared her again, I reckon ?” 

“ No ; she was sickly then, and she died in a few months 
after. She wasn’t in the parish much more nor half a year al- 
together. She didn’t seem lively that afternoon, an’ I could see 


MR, GILf'JVS LOVE-STORY. 


85 

she didn’t care about the dairy, nor the cheeses, on’y she pre* 
tended, to please him. As for him, I never see’d a man so 
wrapt up in a woman. He looked at her as if he was worship- 
pin’ her, an’ as if he wanted to lift her off the ground ivery 
minute to save her the trouble o’ walkin’. Poor man, poor 
man ! It had like to ha’ killed him when she died, though 
he niver gev way, but went on ridin’ about and preachin’. 
But he was wore to a shadow, an’ his eyes used to look as 
dead — you wouldn’t ha’ knowed ’em.” 

“ She brought him no fortin ? ” 

“ Not she. All Mr. Gilfil’s property come by his mother's 
side. There was blood an’ money too, there. It’s a thousand 
pities as he married i’ that way — a fine man like him, as might 
ha’ had the pick o’ the county, an’ had his grandchildren 
about him now. An’ him so fond o’ children, too.” 

In this manner Mrs. Patten usually wound up her reminis- 
cences of the Vicar’s wdfe, of w'hom, you perceive, she knew 
but little. It was clear that the communicative old lady had 
nothing to tell of Mrs. Gilfil’s history previous to her arrival 
in Shepperton, and that she was unacquainted with Mr. 
Gilfil’s love-story. 

But I, dear reader, am quite as communicative as Mrs. 
Patten, and much better informed ; so that, if you care to 
know' more about the Vicar’s courtship and marriage, you 
need only carry your imagination back to the latter end of 
the last century, and your attention forward into the next 
chapter. 


CHAPTER II. 

It is the evening of the 21st of June, 1788. The day has 
been bright and sultry, and the sun will still be more than 
an hour above the horizon, but his rays, broken by the leafy 
fretwork of the elms that border the park, no longer prevent 
two ladies from carrying out their cushions and embroidery, 
and seating themselves to work on the lawn in front of 
Cheverel Manor. The soft turf gives way even under the 
fairy tread of the younger lady, whose small stature and slim 
figure rest on the tiniest of full-grown feet. She trips along 
before the elder, carrying the cushions, which she places in 


86 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


the favorite spot, just on the slope by a clump of laurels, 
where they can see the sunbeams sparkling among the water- 
lilies, and can be themsely^es seen from the dining-room win- 
dows. She has deposited the cushions, and now turns round, 
so that you may have a full view of her as she stands waiting 
the slower advance of the elder lady. You are at once ar- 
rested by her large dark eyes, which, in their inexpressive, 
unconscious beauty, resemble the eyes of a fawn, and it is 
only by an effort of attention that you notice the absence of 
bloom on her young cheek, and the southern yellowish tint of 
her small neck and face, rising above the little black lace 
kerchief which prevents the too immediate comparison of her 
skin with her white muslin gown. Her large eyes seem all 
the more striking because the dark hair is gathered away 
from her face, under the little cap set at the top of her head, 
with a cherry-colored bow on one side. 

The elder lady, who is advancing towards the cushions, 
is cast in a very different mould of womanhood. She is tall, 
and looks the taller because her powdered hair is turned 
backward over a toupee, and surmounted by lace and ribbons. 
She is nearly fifty, but her complexion is still fresh and beau- 
tiful, with the beauty of an auburn blonde ; her proud pout- 
ing lips, and her head thrown a little backward as she walks, 
give an expression of hauteur which is not contradicted by 
the cold gray eye. The tucked-in kerchief, rising full over 
the low tight boddice of her blue dress, sets off the majestic 
form of her bust, and she treads the lawn as if she were one 
of Sir Joshua Reynolds’s stately ladies, who had suddenly 
stepped from her frame to enjoy the evening cool. 

“ Put the cushions lower, Caterina, that we may not have 
so much sun upon us,” she called out, in a tone of authority, 
when still at some distance. 

Catarina obeyed, and they sat down, making two bright 
patches of red and white and blue on the green background 
of the laurels and the lawn, which would look none the less 
pretty in a picture because one of the women’s hearts was 
rather cold and the other rather sad. 

And a charming picture Cheverel Manor would have 
made that evening, if some English Watteau had been there 
to paint it ; the castellated house of gray-tinted stone, with 
the flickering sunbeams sending dashes of golden light across 
the many-shaped panes in the mullioned windows, and agreat 
beech leaning athwart one of the flanking towers, and break- 
ing, with its dark flattered boughs, the too formal symmetry 


MR. GILFIVS LOVE-STORY. 


87 

of the front ; the broad gravel-walk winding on the right, by 
a row of tall pines, alongside the pool — on the left branch- 
ing out among swelling grassy mounds, surmounted by clumps 
of trees, where the red trunk of the Scotch fir glows in the 
descending sunlight against the bright green of limes and 
acacias ; the great pool, where a pair of swans are swimming 
lazily with one leg tucked under a wing, and where the open 
water-lilies lie calmly accepting the kisses of the fluttering 
light-sparkles ; the lawn, with its smooth emerald greenness, 
sloping down to the rougher and browner herbage of the park, 
from which it is invisibly fenced by a little stream that winds 
away from the pool, and disappears under a wooden bridge 
in the distant pleasure-ground ; and on this lawn our two 
ladies, whose part in the landscape the painter, standing at a 
favorable point of view in the park, would represent with a 
few little dabs of red and white and blue. 

Seen from the great Gothic windows of the dining-room, 
they had much more definiteness of outline, and were dis- 
tinctly visible to the three gentlemen sipping their claret 
there, as two fair women in whom all three had a personal 
interest. These gentlemen were a group worth considering 
attentively ; but any one entering that dining-room for the 
first time, would perhaps have had his attention even more 
strongly arrested by the room itself, which was so bare of 
furniture that it impressed one with its architectural beauty 
like a cathedral. A piece of matting stretched from door to 
door, a bit of worn carpet under the dining-table, and a side- 
board in a deep recess, did not detain the eye for a moment 
from the lofty groined ceiling, with its richly-carved pendants, 
all of creamy white, relieved here and there by touches of 
gold. On one side, this lofty ceiling was supported by pillars 
and arches, beyond which a lower ceiling, a miniature copy 
of the higher one, covered the square projection which, with 
its three large pointed windows, formed the central feature of 
the building. The room looked less like a place to dine in 
than a piece of space enclosed simply for the sake of beautiful 
outline ; and the small dining-table, with the party round it, 
seemed an odd and insignificant accident, rather than any- 
thing connected with the original purpose of the apartment. 

But, examined closely, that group was fur from insignifi- 
cant ; for the eldest, who was reading in the newspaper the 
last portentous proceedings of the French parliaments, and 
turning with occasional comments to his young companions, 
was as fine a specimen of the old English gentlemen as could 


88 


SCF.A'ES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


well have been found in those venerable days of cocked-hats 
and pigtails. His dark eyes sparkled under projecting brows, 
made more prominent by bushy grizzled eyebrows ; but any 
apprehension of severity excited by these penetrating eyes, 
and by a somewhat a quiline nose, was allayed by the good- 
natured lines about the mouth, which retained all its teeth 
and its vigor of expression in spite of sixty winters. The 
forehead sloped a litde from the projecting brows, and its 
peaked outline was made conspicuous by the arrangement of 
the profusely powdered hair, drawn backward and gathered 
into a pigtail. He sat in a small hard chair, which did not 
admit the slightest approach to a lounge, and which showed 
to advantage the flatness of his back and the breadth of his 
chest. In fact. Sir Christopher Cheverel was a splendid old 
gentleman, as any one may see who enters the saloon at Chev- 
erel Manor, where his full-length portrait, taken when he was 
fifty, hangs side by side with that of his wife, the stately lady 
seated on the lawn. 

Looking at Sir Christopher, you would at once have been 
inclined to hope that he had a full-grown son and heir ; but 
perhaps you would have wished that it might not prove to 
be the young man on his right hand, in whom a certain re- 
semblance to the Baronet, in the contour of the nose and 
brow, seemed to indicate a family relationship. If this young 
man had been less elegant in his person, he would have been 
remarked for the elegance of his dress. But the perfections of 
his slim, .well-proportioned figure were so striking that no one 
but a tailor could notice the perfections of his velvet coat ; 
and his small white hands, with their blue veins and taper 
fingers, quite eclipsed the beauty of his lace ruffles. The face, 
however — it was difficult to say why — was certainly not 
pleasing. Nothing could be more delicate than the blond 
complexion — its bloom set off by the powdered hair — than 
the veined over-hanging eyelids, which gave an indolent ex- 
pression to the hazel eyes ; nothing more finely cut than the 
transparent nostril and the short upper-lip. Perhaps the chin 
and lower jaw were too small for an irreproachable profile, 
nut the defect was on the side of that delicacy and finesse 
which was the distinctive characteristic of the whole person, 
^nd which was carried out in the clear brown arch of the eye- 
brows, and the marble smoothness of the sloping forehead, 
impossible to say that this face was not eminently handsome \ 
yet, for the majority both of men and women, it was destitute 
of charm. Women disliked eyes that seemed to be indolently 


MR. GIL FIL'S L O I 'E-S TOR Y. 


89 

accepting admiration instead of rendering it ; and men, es- 
pecially if they had a tendency to clumsiness in the nose and 
ankles, were inclined to think this Antinous in a pigtail a 
“ confounded puppy.” I fancy that was frequently the in- 
ward interjection of the Rev. Maynard Gilfil, who was seated 
on the opposite side of the dining-table, though Mr. Gilfil’s 
legs and profile were not at all of a kind to make him peculiarly 
alive to the impertinence and frivolity of personal advantages. 
His healthy, open face and robust limbs were after an excel- 
lent pattern for everyday wear, and, in the opinion of Mr. 
Bates, the north-country gardener, would have become regi- 
mentals “ a fain saight ” better than the “ peaky ” features 
and slight form of Captain Wybrow, notwithstanding that this 
young gentleman, as Sir Christopher’s nephew and destined 
heir, had the strongest hereditary claim on the gardener’s 
respect, and was undeniably “ clean-limbed.” But alas ! hu- 
man longings are perversely obstinate ; and to the man whose 
mouth is watering for a peach, it is of no use to offer the 
largest vegetable marrow. Mr. Gilfil was not sensitive to 
Mr. Bates’s opinion, whereas he was sensitive to the opinion 
of another person, who by no means shared Mr. Bates’s pref- 
erence. 

Who the other person was it would not have required a 
very keen observer to guess, from a certain eagerness in Mr. 
Gilfil’s glance as that little figure in white tripped along the 
lawn with the cushions. Captain Wybrow, too, was looking 
in the same direction, but his handsome face remained hand- 
some — and nothing more. 

“ Ah,” said Sir Christopher, looking up from his paper, 
“there’s my lady. Ring for coffee, Anthony; we’ll go and 
join her, and the little monkey Tina shall give us a song,” 

The coffee presently appeared, brought — not as usual by 
the footman, in scarlet and drab, but — by the old butler, in 
threadbare but well-brushed black, who, as he was placing it 
on the table said — 

“ If you please, Sir Christopher, there’s the widow Har- 
topp a-crying i’ the still room, and begs leave to see your 
honor.” 

“I have given Markham full orders about the widow Har- 
topp,” said Sir Christopher, in a sharp decided tone. “ I 
have nothing to say to her.” 

“ Your honor,” pleaded the butler, rubbing his hands, and 
putting on an additional coating of humility, “ the poor wo- 
man’s dreadful overcome, and says she can’t sleep a wink 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


90 

this blessed night without seeing your honor, and she begs 
you to pardon the great freedom she’s took to come at this 
time. She cries fit to break her heart.” 

‘‘ Ay, ay ; water pays no tax. Well, show her into the 
library.” 

Coffee dispatched, the two young men walked out through 
the open window, and joined the ladies on the lawn, while Sir 
Christopher made his way to the library, solemnly followed 
by Rupert, his pet bloodhound, who, in his habitual place at 
the Baronet’s right hand, behaved with great urbanity during 
dinner ; but when the cloth was drawn, invariably disappeared 
under the table, apparently regarding the claret jug as a 
mere human weakness, which he winked at but refused to 
sanction. 

The library lay but three steps from the dining-room, on 
the other side of a cloistered and matted passage. The oriel 
window was overshadowed by the great beech, and this, with 
the flat, heavily-carved ceiling and the dark hue of the old 
books that lined the walls, made the room look sombre, es- 
pecially on entering it from the dining-room, with its aerial 
curves and cream-colored fretwork touched with gold. As 
Sir Christopher opened the door, a jet of brighter light fell 
on a woman in a widow’s dress, who stood in the middle of 
the room, and made the deepest of courtesies as he entered. 
She was a buxom woman approaching forty, her eyes red with 
the tears which had evidently been absorbed by the handker- 
chief gathered into a damp ball in her right hand. 

“ Now, Mrs. Hartopp,” said Sir Christopher, taking out 
his gold snuff-box and tapping the lid, “ what have you to 
say to me ? Markham has delivered you a notice to quit, I 
suppose } ” 

“ Oh yis, your honor, an’ that’s the reason why I’ve come. 
I hope your honor’ll think better on it, an’ not turn me an’ 
my poor children out o’ the farm, where my husband al’ys 
paid his rent as reglar as the day come.” 

“ Nonsense ! I should like to know what good it will do 
you and your children to stay on the farm and lose every farth- 
ing your husband has left you, instead of selling your stock 
and going into some little place where you can keep your 
money together. It is very well known to every tenant of 
mine that I never allow widows to stay on their husbands’ 
farms.” 

“ Oh, Sir Christifer, if you consider— when I’ve sold 

the hay, an’ corn, an’ all the life things, an’ paid the debts, 


MR. CILFIL'S L O VE-S TOR K 


91 


an’ put the money out to use, I shall have hardly enough to 
keep our souls an’ bodies together. An’ how can I rear my 
boys and put ’em ’prentice ? They must go for day-laborers, 
an’ their father a man wi’ as good belongings as any on your 
honor’s state, an’ niver threshed l^is wheat afore it was well 
i’ the rick, nor sold the straw off his farm, nor nothin.’ Ask 
all the farmers round if there was a stiddier, soberer man 
than my husband as attended Ripstone market. An’ he says, 

‘ Bessie,’ says he — them w^as his last words — ‘ you’ll mek a 
shift to manage the farm, if Sir Christifer ’ull let you stay 
on.’ ” 

“ Pooh, pooh ! ” said Sir Christopher, Mrs. Hartopp’s sobs 
having interrupted her pleadings, “ now listen to me, and try 
to understand a little common-sense. You are about as able 
to manage the farm as your best milch cow. You’ll be ob- 
liged to have some managing man, who will either cheat you 
out of your money or wheedle you into marrying him. 

“ Oh, your honor, I was never that sort o’ woman, an’ no- 
body has known it on me.” 

“ Very likely not, because you w'ere never a widow before. 
A woman’s always silly enough, but she’s never quite as great 
a fool as she can be until she puts on a widow’s cap. Now, 
just ask yourself how much the better you will be for staying 
on your farm at the end of four years, when you’ve got through 
your money, and let your farm run down, and are in arrears 
for half your rent ; or, perhaps, have got some great bulky 
fellow for a husband, who swears at you and kicks your chil- 
dren.” 

“ Indeed, Sir Christifer, I know a deal o’ farmin’, an’ was 
brought up i’ the thick on it, as you may say. An’ there was 
my husband’s great-aunt managed a farm for twenty year, an’ 
left legacies to all her nephys an’ nieces, an’ even to my hus- 
band, and was then a babe unborn.” 

“ Psha ! a woman six feet high, with a squint and sharp 
elbows, 1 dare say — a man in petticoats. Not a rosy-cheeked 
widow like you, Mrs. Hartopp.” 

“Indeed, your honor, I never heard of her squintin,* an’ 
they said as she might ha’ been married o’er and o’er again, 
to people as had no call to hanker after her money.” 

“ Ay, ay, that’s what you all think. Every man that looks 
at you wants to marry you, and would like you the better the 
more children you have and the less mone)^ But it is useless 
to talk and cry. I have good reasons for my plans, and never 
alter them. What you have to do is to make the best of your 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


90 

this blessed night without seeing your honor, and she begs 
you to pardon the great freedom she’s took to come at this 
time. She cries fit to break her heart.” 

‘‘ Ay, ay ; water pays no tax. Well, show her into the 
library.” 

Coffee dispatched, the two young men walked out through 
the open window, and joined the ladies on the lawn, while Sir 
Christopher made his way to the library, solemnly followed 
by Rupert, his pet bloodhound, who, in his habitual place at 
the Baronet’s right hand, behaved with great urbanity during 
dinner ; but when the cloth was drawn, invariably disappeared 
under the table, apparently regarding the claret jug as a 
mere human weakness, which he winked at but refused to 
sanction. 

The library lay but three steps from the dining-room, on 
the other side of a cloistered and matted passage. The oriel 
window was overshadowed by the great beech, and this, with 
the flat, heavily-carved ceiling and the dark hue of the old 
books that lined the walls, made the room look sombre, es- 
pecially on entering it from the dining-room, with its aerial 
curves and cream-colored fretwork touched with gold. As 
Sir Christopher opened the door, a jet of brighter light fell 
on a woman in a widow’s dress, who stood in the middle of 
the room, and made the deepest of courtesies as he entered. 
She was a buxom woman approaching forty, her eyes red with 
the tears which had evidently been absorbed by the handker- 
chief gathered into a damp ball in her right hand. 

“ Now, Mrs. Hartopp,” said Sir Christopher, taking out 
his gold snuff-box and tapping the lid, “ what have you to 
say to me ? Markham has delivered you a notice to quit, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ Oh yis, your honor, an’ that’s the reason why I’ve come. 
I hope your honor’ll think belter on it, an’ not turn me an’ 
my poor children out o’ the farm, where my husband al’ys 
paid his rent as reglar as the day come.” 

“ Nonsense ! I should like to know what good it will do 
you and your children to stay on the farm and lose every farth- 
ing your husband has left you, instead of selling your stock 
and going into some little place where you can keep your 
money together. It is very well known to every tenant of 
mine that I never allow widows to stay on their husbands’ 
farms.” 

Oh, Sir Christifer, if you consider — when I’ve sold 

the hay, an’ corn, an’ all the life things, an’ paid the debts, 


GILFIL'S L O VE-S TOR K 


91 


an’ put the money out to use, I shall have hardly enough to 
keep our souls an’ bodies together. An’ how can I rear my 
boys and put ’em ’prentice ? They must go for day-laborers, 
an’ their father a man wi’ as good belongings as any on your 
honor’s state, an’ niver threshed fiis wheat afore it was well 
i’ the rick, nor sold the straw off his farm, nor nothin.’ Ask 
all the farmers round if there was a stiddier, soberer man 
than my husband as attended Ripstone market. An’ he says, 

‘ Bessie,’ says he — them was his last words — ‘you’ll mek a 
shift to manage the farm, if Sir Christifer ’ull let you slay 
on.’ ” 

“ Pooh, pooh ! ” said Sir Christopher, Mrs. Hartopp’s sobs 
having interrupted her pleadings, “ now listen to me, and try 
to understand a little common-sense. You are about as able 
to manage the farm as your best milch cow. You’ll be ob- 
liged to have some managing man, who will either cheat you 
out of your money or wheedle you into marrying him. 

“ Oh, your honor, I was never that sort o’ woman, an’ no- 
body has known it on me.” 

“ Very likely not, because you were never a widow before. 
A woman’s always silly enough, but she’s never quite as great 
a fool as she can be until she puts on a widow’s cap. Now, 
just ask yourself how much the better you will be for staying 
on your farm at the end of four years, when you’ve got through 
your money, and let your farm run down, and are in arrears 
for half your rent ; or, perhaps, have got some great bulky 
fellow for a husband, who swears at you and kicks your chil- 
dren.” 

“ Indeed, Sir Christifer, I know a deal o’ farmin’, an’ was 
brought up i’ the thick on it, as you may say. An’ there was 
my husband’s great-aunt managed a farm for twenty year, an’ 
left legacies to all her nephys an’ nieces, an’ even to my hus- 
band, and was then a babe unborn.” 

“ Psha ! a woman six feet high, with a squint and sharp 
elbows, 1 dare say — a man in petticoats. Not a rosy-cheeked 
widow like you, Mrs. Hartopp.” 

“ Indeed, your honor, I never heard of her squintin,' an’ 
they said as she might ha’ been married o’er and o’er again, 
to people as had no call to hanker after her money.” 

“ Ay, ay, that’s what you all think. Every man that looks 
at you wants to marry you, and would like you the better the 
more children you have and the less money. But it is useless 
to talk and cry. I have good reasons for my plans, and never 
alter them. What you have to do is to make the best of your 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


92 

Stock and to look out for some little place to go to, when you 
leave’the Hollows. Now, go back to Mrs. Bellamy’s room, 
and ask her to give you a dish of tea.” 

Mrs. Hartopp, understanding from Sir Christopher s tone 
that he* was not to be shaken, courtesied low and left the 
library, while the Baronet, seating himself at his desk in the 
oriel window, wrote the following letter : 

“Mr. Markham,— Take no steps about letting Crowsfoot 
Cottage, as I intend to put in the widow Hartopp when she leaves 
her farm ; and if you will be here at eleven on Saturday morning, 
I will ride round with you, and settle about making soine repairs, 
and see about adding a bit of land to the take, as she will want to 

keep a cow and some pigs. 

“ Yours faithfully, Christopher Cheverel. 

After ringing the bell and ordering this letter to be sent, 
Sir Christopher walked out to join the party on the lawn. But 
finding the cushions deserted, he walked on to the eastern 
front of the building, where, by the side of the grand entrance, 
was the large bow-window of the saloon, opening on to the 
gravel-sweep, and looking towards a long vista of undulating 
turf, bordered by tall trees, which, seeming to unite itself with 
the green of the meadows and a grassy road through a planta- 
tion only terminated with the Gothic arch of a gateway in the 
far distance. The bow window was open, and Sir Christopher, 
stepping in, found the group he sought, examining the prog- 
ress of the unfinished ceiling. It was in the same style of florid 
pointed Gothic as the dining-room, but more elaborate in its 
tracery, which was like petrified lace-work picked out with 
delicate and varied coloring. About a fourth of it still 
remained uncolored, and under this part were scaffolding, 
ladders, and stools ; otherwise the spacious saloon was empty 
of furniture, and seemed to be a grand Gothic canopy for the 
group of five human figures standing in the centre. 

“ Francesco has been getting on a little better the last day 
or two,” said Sir Christopher, as he joined the party : “ he’s 
a sad lazy dog, and I fancy he has a knack of sleeping as he 
stands, with his brushes in his hands. But I must spur him 
on, or we may not have the scaffolding cleared away before 
the bride comes, if you show dexterous generalship in your 
wooing eh, Anthony ? and take your Magdeburg quickly.” 

“ Ah, sir, a siege is known to be one of the most tedious 
operations in war,” said Captain VVybrovv, with an easy smile. 

“ Not when there’s a traitor within the walls in the shape 


GILFirS LOVE-STORY. 


93 

of a soft heart. And that there will be, if Beatrice has her 
mother’s tenderness as well as her mother’s beauty.” 

” What do you think, Sir Christopher,” said Lady Chev- 
erel, who seemed to wince a little under her husband's rem- 
iniscences, “ of hanging Guercino’s ‘ Sibyl ’ over that door 
when we put up the pictures ? It is rather lost in my sitting- 
room.” 

“Very good, my love,” answered Sir Christopher, in a 
tone of punctiliously polite affection ; “ if you like to part with 
the ornament from your own room, it will show admirably 
here. Our portraits, by Sir Joshua, will hang opposite the 
window, and that ‘ Transfiguration ’ at that end. You see, 
Anthony, I am leaving no good places on the walls for you and 
your wife. We shall turn you with your faces to the wall in 
the gallery, and you may take your revenge on us by and by.” 

While this conversation was going on, Mr. Gilfil turned to 
Caterina and said, 

“ I like the view from this window better than any other 
in the house.” 

She made no answer, and he saw that her eyes were filling 
with tears ; so he added, “ Suppose we walk out a little ; Sir 
Christopher and my lady seems to be occupied.” 

Caterina complied silently, and they turned down one of 
the gravel walks that led, after many windings under tall trees 
and among grassy openings, to a large enclosed flow'er-garden. 
Their walk w^as perfectly silent, for Maynard Gilfil knew that 
Caterina’s thoughts w’ere not with him, and she had been long 
used to make him endure the weight of those moods which 
she carefully hid from others 

They reached the flower-garden, and turned mechanically 
in at the gate that opened, through a high thick hedge, on 
an expanse of brilliant color, which, after the green shades 
they had passed through, startled the eye like flames. The 
effect w^as assisted by an undulation of the ground, which 
gradually descended from the entrance-gate, and then rose 
again towards the opposite end, crowmed by an orangery. 
The flowers were glowing with their evening splendors ; ver- 
benas and heliotropes were sending up their finest incense. 
It seemed a gala were all was happiness and brilliancy, and 
misery could find no sympathy. This was the effect it had 
on Caterina. As she wound among the beds of gold and 
blue and pink, where the flowers seemed to be looking at her 
with wondering elf-like eyes, knowing nothing of sorrow, the 
feeling of isolation in her wretchedness overcame her, and 


94 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


the tears, which had been before trickling slowly down her 
pale cheeks, now gushed forth accompanied with sobs. And 
yet there was a loving human being close beside her, whose 
heart was aching for hers, who was possessed by the feeling 
that she was miserable, and that he was helpless to soothe 
her. But she was too much irritated by the idea that his 
wishes were different from hers, that he rather regretted the 
folly of her hopes than the probability of their disappoint- 
ment, to take any comfort in his sympathy. Caterina, like 
the rest of us, turned away from sympathy which she sus- 
pected to be mingled with criticism, as the child turns away 
from the sweetmeat in which it suspects imperceptible med- 
icine. 

“ Dear Caterina, I think I hear voices,” said Mr. Gilfil ; 
“ they may be coming this way.” 

She checked herself like one accustomed to conceal her 
emotions, and ran rapidly to the other end of the garden, 
where she seemed occupied in selecting a rose. Presently 
Lady Cheverel entered, leaning on the arm of Captain Wy- 
brovv, and followed by Sir Christopher. The party stopped 
to admire the tiers of geraniums near the gate ; and in the 
mean time Caterina tripped back with a moss rose-bud in her 
hand, and, going up to Sir Christopher, said, “ There, Padron- 
cello — there is a nice rose for your button-hole.” 

“ Ah, you black-eyed monkey,” he said fondly stroking 
her cheek ; “ so you have been running off with Maynard, 
either to torment or coax him an inch or two deeper into love. 
Come, come, I want you to sing us ‘ Ho perduto ’ before we 
sit down to picquet. Anthony goes to-morrow, you know ; 
you must warble him into the right sentimental lover’s mood, 
that he may acquit himself well at Bath.” He put her little 
arm under his, and calling to Lady Cheverel, “ Come, Henri- 
etta ! ” led the way towards the house. 

The party entered the drawing-room, which, with its oriel 
window, corresponded to the library in the other wing, and 
had also a flat ceiling heavy with carving and blazonry ; but 
the window being unshaded, and the walls hung with full- 
length portraits of knights and dames in scarlet, wLite, and 
gold, it had not the sombre effect of the library. Here hung 
the portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel, who in the reign of 
Charles 11. was the renovator of the family splendor, which 
had suffered some declension from the early brilliancy of that 
Chevreuil, who came over with the Conqueror. A very im- 
posing personage was this Sir Anthony, standing with one 


MR. GILFIUS L O FES TOR K 


95 

arm akimbo, and one fine leg and foot advanced, evidently 
with a view to the gratification of his contemporaries and 
posterity. You might have taken off his splendid peruke, 
and his scarlet cloak, which was thrown backward from his 
shoulders, without annihilating the dignity of his appearance. 
And he had known how to choose a wife, too, for his lady, 
hanging opposite to him, with her sunny brown hair drawn 
away in bands from her mild grave face, and falling in two 
large rich curls on her snowy gently-sloping neck, which 
shamed the harsher hue and outline of her white satin robe, 
was a fit mother of “ large-acred ” heirs. 

In this room tea was served ; and here, every evening, as 
regularly as the great clock in the court-yard with deliberate 
bass tones struck nine. Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel 
sat down to picquet until half-past ten, when Mr. Gilfil read 
prayers to the assembled household in the chapel. 

But now it was not near nine, and Caterina must sit down 
to the harpsichord and sing Sir Christopher’s favorite airs, 
by Gluck and Paesiello, whose operas, for the happiness of 
that generation, were then to be heard on the London stage. 
It happened this evening that the sentiment of these airs, 
“ C/ie farh senza Eurydice ? ” and “ Ho perduto il bel sembi- 
atiieP in both of which the singer pours out his yearning after 
his lost love, came very close to Caterina’s own feeling. But 
her emotion, instead of being a hindrance to her singing, gave 
her additional power. Her singing was what she could do 
best ; it was her one point of superiority, in which it was 
probable she would excel the high-born beauty whom An- 
thony was to woo ; and her love, her jealousy, her pride, her 
rebellion against her destiny, made one stream of passion 
which welled forth in the deep rich tones of her voice. She 
had a rare contralto, which Lady Cheverel, who had high 
musical taste, had been careful to preserve her from straining. 

Excellent, Caterina,” said Lady Cheverel, as there was 
a pause after the wonderful linked sweetness of “ Chefaror 
“ I never heard you sing that so well. Once more ! ” 

“ It was repeated ; and then came Ho perduto^ which 
Sir Christopher encored, in spite of the clock, just striking 
nine. When the last note was dying out, he said — 

There’s a clever black-eyed monkey. Now bring out 
the table for picquet.” 

Caterina drew out the table and placed the cards ; then, 
with her rapid fairy suddenness of motion, threw herself on 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


96 

her knees, and clasped Sir Christopher’s knee. He bent 
down, stroked her cheek, and smiled. 

“ Caterina, that is foolish,” said Lady Cheverel. “ I wish 
you would leave off those stage-players’ antics.” 

She jumped up, arranged the music on the harpsichord, 
and then, seeing the Baronet and his lady seated at picquet, 
guietiy glided out of the room. 

Captain Wybrow had been leaning near the harpsichord 
during the singing, and the chaplain had thrown himself on 
a sofa at the end of the room. They both now took up a 
book. Mr. Gilfil chose the last number of the “ Gentleman’s 
Magazine ; ” Captain Wybrow, stretched on an ottoman near 
the door, opened “ Faublas ; ” and there was perfect silence 
in the room which, ten minutes before, was vibrating to the 
passionate tones of Caterina. 

She had made her way along the cloistered passages, now 
lighted here and there by a small oil-lamp, to the grand stair- 
case, which led directly to a gallery running along the whole 
eastern side of the building, where it was her habit to walk 
when she wished to be alone. The bright moonlight was 
streaming through the windows, throwing into strange light 
and shadow the heterogeneous objects that lined the long 
walls : Greek statues and busts of Roman emperors ; low 
cabinets filled with curiosities, natural and antiquarian ; tropi- 
cal birds and huge horns of beasts ; Hindoo gods and strange 
shells ; swords and daggers, and bits of chain-armor ; Roman 
lamps and tiny models of Greek temples ; and, above all 
these, queer old family portraits — of little boys and girls, once 
the hope of the Cheverels with close-shaven heads imprisoned 
in stiff ruffs — of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary 
features and highly-developed head-dresses — of gallant gentle- 
men, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed beards. 

Here, on rainy days. Sir Christopher and his lady took 
their promenade, and here billiards were played; but, in the 
evening, it was forsaken by all except Caterina — and, some- 
times, one other person. 

She paced up and down in the moonlight, her pale face 
and thin white-robed form making her look like the ghost of 
some former Lady Cheverel come to revisit the glimpses of 
the moon. 

By and by she paused opposite the broad window above 
the portico, and looked out on the long vista of turf and trees 
now stretching chili and saddened in the moonlight. 

Suddenly a breath of warmth and roses seemed to float 


MR. GILFIVS L 0 VE-STOR Y. 


97 

towards her, and an arm stole gently round her waist, while a 
soft hand took up her tiny fingers. Caterina felt an electric 
thrill, and was motionless for one long moment ; then she 
pushed away the arm and hand, and, turning round, lifted up 
to the face that hung over her eyes full of tenderness and re- 
proach. The fawn-like unconsciousness was gone, and in 
that one look were the ground tones of poor little Caterina’s 
nature — intense love and fierce jealousy. 

“ Why do you push me away, Tina ? ” said Captain Wy- 
brow in a half-whisper ; “ are you angry with me for what a 
hard fate puts upon me .? Would you have me cross my un- 
cle — who has done so much for us both — in his dearest wish ? 
You know I have duties — we both have duties — before which 
feeling must be sacrificed.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Caterina, stamping her foot, and turning 
away her head ; “ don’t tell what 1 know already.” 

There was a voice speaking in Caterina’s mind to which 
she had never given vent. That voice said continually, 
“Why did he make me love him — why did he let me know 
he loved me, if he knew all the while that he couldn’t brave 
everything for my sake ? ” Then love answered, “ He was 
led on by the feeling of the moment, as you have been, Cate- 
rina ; and now you ought to help him to do what is right.” 
Then the voice rejoined, “ It was a slight matter to him. 
He doesn’t much mind giving you up. He will soon love 
that beautiful woman, and forget a poor little pale thing like 
you.” 

Thus love, anger, and jealousy were struggling in that 
young soul. 

“ Besides, Tina,” continued Captain Wybrow in still gen- 
tler tones, “ I shall not succeed. Miss Assher very likely 
prefers some one else ; and you know I have the best will 
in the world to fail. I shall come back a hapless bachelor — 
perhaps to find you already married to the good-looking chap- 
lain, who is over head and ears in love with you. Poor Sir 
Christopher has made up his mind that you’re to have 
Gilfil.” 

“ Why will you speak so ? You speak from your own 
want of feeling. Go away from me.” 

“ Don’t let us part in anger, Tina. All this may pass 
away. It’s as likely as not that I may never marry any one 
at all. These palpitations may carry me off, and you may 
have the satisfaction of knowing that I shall never be any- 
body’s bridegroom. Who knows what may liappen ? I may 


SC£JV£S OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


98 

be nw own master before I get into the bonds of holy matri- 
mony, and be able to choose my little singing-bird. Why 
should we distress ourselves before the time? 

“ It is easy to talk so when you are not feeling,” said Cat- 
erina, the tears flowing fast. “ It is bad to bear now, what- 
ever may come after. But you don’t care about my misery. 

“Don’t I, Tina?” said Anthony in his tenderest tones, 
again stealing his arm around her waist, and drawing her 
towards him. Poor Tina was the slave of this voice and 
touch. Grief and resentment, retrospect and foreboding, 
vanished— all life before and after melted away in the bliss 
of that moment, as Anthony pressed his lips to hers. 

Captain Wybrow thought, “Poor little Tina! it would 
make her very happy to have me. But she is a mad little 
thing.” 

At that moment a loud bell startled Caterina from her 
trance of bliss. It was the summons to prayers in the 
chapel, and she hastened away, leaving Captain Wybrow to 
follow slowly. 

It was a" pretty sight, that family assembled to worship in 
the little chapel, where a couple of wax candles threw a mild 
faint light on the figures kneeling there. In the desk was 
Mr. Gilfil, with his face a shade graver than usual. On his 
right hand, kneeling on their red velvet cushions, were the 
master and mistress of the household, in their elderly digni- 
fied beauty. On his left, the youthful grace of Anthony and 
Caterina, in all the striking contrast of their coloring — he, 
with his exquisite outline and rounded fairness, like an Olvm- 
pian god ; she, dark and tiny, like a gypsy changeling. Tiien 
there were the domestics kneeling on red-covered forms, — 
the women headed by Mrs. Bellamy, the natty little old house- 
keeper, in snowy cap and apron, and Mrs. Sharp, my lady’s 
maid of somewhat vinegar aspect and flaunting attire ; the 
men by Mr. Bellamy the butler, and Mr. Warren, Sir Christo- 
pher’s venerable valet. 

A few collects from the Evening Service was what Mr. 
Gilfil habitually read, ending with the simple petition, “Lighten 
our darkness.” 

And then they all rose, the servants turning to courtesy 
and bow as they went out. The family returned to the 
drawing-room, said good-night to each other, and dispersed 
. — all to speedy slumber except two. Caterina only cried 
herself to sleep after the clock had struck twelve. Mr. Gilfil 


GILF/VS L O VE-STOR Y. gg 

lay awake still longer, thinking that very likely Caterina was 
crying. 

Captain Wybrow, having dismissed his valet at eleven, 
was soon in a soft slumber, his face looking like a fine cameo 
in high relief on the slightly indented pillow. 


CHAPTER III. 

The last chapter has given the discerning reader sufficient 
insight into the state of things at Cheverel Manor in the sum- 
mer of 1788. In that summer, we know, the great nation of 
France was agitated by conflicted thoughts and passions, 
which were but the beginning of sorrows. And in our Cat- 
erina’s little breast, too, there were terrible struggles. The 
poor bird was beginning to flutter and vainly dash its soft 
breast against the hard iron bars of the inevitable, and we 
see too plainly the danger, if that anguish should go on 
heightening instead of being allayed, that the palpitating 
heart may be fatally bruised. 

Meanwhile, if, as I hope, you feel some interest in Caterina 
and her friends at Cheverel Manor, you are perhaps asking, 
How came she to be there ? How was it that this tiny, dark- 
eyed child of the south, whose face was immediately suggest- 
ive of olive-covered hills and taper-lit shrines, came to have 
her home in that stately English manor-house, by the side of 
the blonde matron. Lady Cheverel — almost as if a humming- 
bird were found perched on one of the elm-trees in the park, 
by the side of her ladyship’s handsomest pouter-pigeon ? 
Speaking good English, too, and joining in Protestant prayers ! 
Surely she must have been adopted and brought over to 
England at a very early age. She was. 

During Sir Christopher’s last visit to Italy with his lady, 
fifteen years before, they resided for some time at Milan, 
where Sir Christopher, who was an enthusiast for Gothic 
architecture, and was then entertaining the project of meta- 
morphosing his plain brick family mansion into the model of 
a Gothic manor-house, was bent on stud3ang the details of 
that marble miracle, the Cathedral. Here Lady Cheverel, as 
at other Italian cities where she made any protracted stay, 
engaged a maestro to give her lessons in singing, for she had 
then not only a fine musical taste, but a fine soprano voice. 


100 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


Those were days when very rich people used manuscript mu- 
sic, and many a man who resembled Jean Jacques in nothing 
else, resembled him in getting a livelihood “ a copier la mu- 
sique k tant la page.” Lady Cheverel having need of this 
service. Maestro Albani told her he would send her a poverac- 
do of his acquaintance, whose manuscript was the neatest and 
most correct he knew of. Unhappily the poveracdo was not 
always in his best wits, and was sometimes rather slow in con- 
sequence ; but it would be a work of Christian charity worthy 
of the beautiful Signora to employ poor Sarti. 

The next morning, Mrs Sharp, then a blooming abigail of 
three-and-thirty, entered her lady’s private room and said, 
“ If you please, my lady, there’s the frowiest, shabbiest man 
you ever saw, outside, and he’s told Mr. Warren as the sing- 
ing-master sent him to see your ladyship. But I think you’ll 
hardly like him to come in here. Belike he’s only a beggar.” 

“ Oh, yes, show him in immediately.” 

Mrs. Sharp retired, muttering something about “ fleas and 
worse.” She had the smallest possible admiration for fair 
Ausonia and its natives, and even her profound deference for 
Sir Christopher and her lady could not prevent her from ex- 
pressing her amazement at the infatuation of gentlefolks in 
choosing to sojourn among “ Papises, in countries where there 
was no getting to air a bit o’ linen, and where the people 
smelt o’ garlick fit to knock you down.” 

However she presently reappeared, ushering in a small, 
meagre man, sallow and dingy, with a restless, wandering look 
in his dull eyes, and an excessive timidity about his deep rev- 
erences, which gave him the air of a man who had been long 
a solitary prisoner. Yet through all this squalor and wretch- 
edness there were some traces discernible of comparative 
youth and former good looks. Lady Cheverel, though not 
very tender-hearted, still less sentimental, was essentially kind 
and liked to dispense benefits like a goddess, who looks down 
benignly on the halt, the maimed, and the blind that approach 
her shrine. She was smitten with some compassion at the 
sight of poor Sarti, who struck her as the mere battered wreck 
of a vessel that might have once floated gayly enough on its 
outward voyage, to the sound of pipes and tabors. She 
spoke gently as she pointed out to him the operatic selections 
she wished him to copy, and he seemed to sun himself in her 
auburn, radiant presence, so that when he made his exit with 
the music-books under his arm, his bow, though not less rever- 
ent, was less timid. 


MR. GILFWS LOVE-STORY. 


lOI 


It was ten years at least since Sarli had seen anything so 
bright and stately and beautiful as Lady Cheverel. For the 
time was far off in which he had trod the stage in satin and 
feathers, the pruno teiiore of one short season. He had com- 
pletely lost his voice in the following winter, and had ever since 
been little better than a cracked fiddle, which is good for 
nothing but firewood. For, like many Italian singers, he was 
too ignorant to teach, and if it had not been for his one talent 
of penmanship, he and his young helpless wife might have 
starved. Then, just after their third child was born, fever 
came, swept away the sickly mother and the too eldest chil- 
dren, and attacked Sarti himself, who rose from his sick-bed 
with enfeebled brain and muscle, and a tiny baby on his hands, 
scarcely four months old. He lodged over a fruit-shop kept 
by a stout virago, loud of tongue and irate in temper, but who 
had had children born to her, and so had taken care of the 
tiny yellow, black-eyed bambineita., and tended Sarti himself 
through his sickness. Here he continued to live, earning a 
meagre subsistence for himself and his little one by the work 
of copying music, put into his hands chiefly by Maestro Albani. 
He seemed to exist for nothing but the child : he tended it, he 
dandled it, he chatted to it, living with it alone in his one 
room above the fruit shop, only asking his landlady to take 
care of the marmoset during his short absences in fetching 
and carrying home work. Customers frequenting that fruit- 
shop might often see the tiny Caterina seated on the floor 
with her legs in a heap of pease, which it was her delight to 
kick about ; or perhaps deposited, like a kitten, in a large 
basket out of harm’s way. 

Sometimes, however, Sarti left his little one with another 
kind of protectress. He was very regular in his devotions, 
w'hich he paid thrice a week in the great cathedral, carrying 
Caterina with him. Here, when the high morning sun was 
warming the myriad glittering pinnacles without, and strug- 
gling against the massive gloom within, the shadow of a man 
with a child on his arm might be seen flitting across the more 
stationary shadows of pillar and mullion, and making its way 
towards a little tinsel Madonna hanging in a retired spot near 
the choir. Amid all the sublimities of the mighty cathedral, 
poor Sarti had fixed on this tinsel Madonna as the symbol of 
divine mercy and protection, — just as a child, in the presence 
of a great landscape, sees none of the glories of wood and sky, 
but sets its heart on a floating feather or insect that happens 
to be on a level with its eye. Here, then, Sarti worshipped 


J02 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


and prayed, setting Caterina on the floor by his side ; and now 
and then, when the cathedral lay near some place where he 
had to call, and did not like to take her, he would leave her 
there in front of the tinsel Madonna, where she would sit, 
perfectly good, amusing herself with low crowing noises and 
see-sawings of her tiny body. And when Sarti came back, he 
always found that the Blessed Mother had taken good care of 
Caterina. 

That was briefly the history of Sarti, who fulfilled so well 
the orders Lady Cheverel gave him, that she sent him away 
again with a stock of new work. But this time, week after 
week passed, and he neither reappeared nor sent home the 
music intrusted to him. Lady Cheverel began to be anxious, 
and was thinking of sending Warren to inquire at the address 
Sarti had given her, when one day, as she was equipped, for 
driving out, the valet brought in a piece of paper, which, 
he said, had been left for her ladyship by a man who was 
carrying fruit. The paper contained only three tremulous 
lines,* in Italian : 

Will the Eccelentissima, for the love of God, have pity on 
a dying man, and come to him ? ” 

Lady Cheverel recognized the handwriting as Sarti’s in 
spite of its tremulousness, and going down to her carriage, 
ordered the Milanese coachman to drive to Strada Quinqua- 
gesima, Numero lo. The coach stopped in a dirty, narrow 
street opposite La Pazzini’s fruit-shop, and that large speci 
men of womanhood immediately presented herself at the door, 
to the extreme disgust of Mrs. Sharp, who remarked privately 
to Mr. Warren that La Pazzini was a “ hijeous porpis.” 
The fruit-woman, however, was all smiles and deep courtesies 
to the Eccelentissima, who, not very well understanding her 
Milanese dialect, abbreviated the conversation by asking 
to be shown at once to Signor Sarti. La Pazzini preceded 
her up the dark narrow stairs, and opened a door through 
which she begged her ladyship to enter. Directly opposite 
the door lay Sarti, on a low miserable bed. His eyes were 
glazed, and no movement indicated that he was conscious of 
their entrance. 

On the foot of the bed was seated a tiny child, apparently 
not three years old, her head covered by a linen cap, her feet 
clothed with leather boots, above which her little yellow legs 
showed thin and naked. A frock, made of what had once 
been a gay flowered silk, was her only other garment. Her 
large dark eyes shone from out her queer little face, like two 


MJ^. G I LFWS LOVE-STORY. 


103 

precious stones in a grotesque image carved in old ivory. She 
held an empty medicine-bottle in her hand, and was amusing 
herself by putting the cork in and drawing it out again, to hear 
how it would pop. 

La Pazzini went up to the bed and said, “Ecco la nobilis- 
sima donna ! ” but directly after screamed out, “ Holy moth- 
er I he is dead ! ” 

It was so. The entreaty had not been sent in time for 
Sard to carry out his project of asking the great English 
lady to take care of his Caterina. That was the thought 
which haunted his feeble brain as soon as he began to fear 
that his illness would end in death. She had wealth — she 
was kind — she would surely do something for the poor or- 
phan. And so, at last, he sent that scrap of paper which won 
the fulfilment of his prayer, though he did not live to utter it. 
Lady Cheverel gave La Pazzini money that the last decencies 
might be paid to the dead man, and carried away Caterina, 
meaning to consult Sir Christopher as to what should be done 
with her. Even Mrs. Sharp had been so smitten with pity by 
the scene she had witnessed when she was summoned up stairs 
to fetch Caterina, as to shed a small tear, though she was not 
at all subject to that weakness ; indeed, she abstained from it 
on principle, because, as she often said, it was known to be 
the worst thing in the world for the eyes. 

On the way back to her hotel. Lady Cheverel turned over 
various projects in her mind regarding Caterina, but at last 
one gained the preference over all the rest. Why should 
they not take the child to England, and bring her up there 
They had been married twelve years, yet Cheverel Manor 
was cheered by no children’s voices, and the old house would 
be all the better for a little of that music. Besides, it would 
be a Christian work to train this little Papist into a good 
Protestant, and graft as much English fruit as possible on the 
Italian stem. 

Sir Christopher listened to this plan with hearty acquies- 
cence. He loved children, and took at once to the little 
black-eyed monkey — his name for Caterina all through her 
short life. But neither he nor Lady Cheverel had any idea of 
adopting her as their daughter, and giving her their own rank 
in life. They were much too English and aristocratic to think 
of anything so romantic. No ! the child would be brought 
up at Cheverel Manor as a protegee, to be ultimately useful, 
perhaps, in sorting worsteds, keeping accounts, reading aloud, 
and otherwise supplying the place of spectacles when her 
ladyship’s eyes should wax dim. 


104 


SCEMES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


So Mrs. Sharp had to procure new clothes, to replace the 
linen cap, flowered frock, and leathern boots ; and now, 
strange to say, little Caterina, who had suffered many uncon- 
scious evils in her existence of thirty moons, first began to 
know conscious troubles. “Ignorance,” says Ajax, “is a 
painless evil;” so, I should think, is dirt, considering the 
merry faces that go along with it. At any rate, cleanliness is 
sometimes a painful good, as any one can vouch who has had 
his face washed the wrong way, by a pitiless hand with a gold 
ring on the third finger. If you, reader, have not known that 
initiatory anguish, it is idle to expect that you will form any 
approximate conception of what Caterina endured under 
Mrs. Sharp’s new dispensation of soap-and-water. Happily, 
this purgatory come presently to be associated in her tiny 
brain with a passage straightway to a seat of bliss — the sofa 
in Laaly Cheverel’s sitting-room, where there were toys to be 
broken, a ride was to be had on Sir Christopher’s knee, and 
a spaniel of resigned temper was prepared to undergo small 
tortures without flinching. 


CHAPTER IV. 

In three months from the time of Caterina’s adoption — 
namely, in the late autumn of 1773 — the chimneys of Chev- 
erel Manor were sending up unwonted smoke, and the ser- 
vants were awaiting in excitement the return of their master 
and mistress after a two years’ absence. Great was the as- 
tonishment of Mrs. Bellamy, the housekeeper, when Mr. 
Warren lifted a little black-eyed child out of the carriage, and 
great was Mrs. Sharpe’s sense of superior information and ex- 
perience, as she detailed Caterina’s history, interspersed with 
copious comments, to the rest of the upper servants that even- 
ing, as they were taking a comfortable glass of grog together 
in the housekeeper’s room. 

A pleasant room it was as any party need desire to muster 
in on a cold November evening. The fireplace alone was a 
picture : a wide and deep recess with a low brick altar in the 
middle, where great logs of dry wood sent myriad sparks up 
the dark chimney-throat ; and over the front of this recess a 
large wooden entablature, bearing this motto, finely carved in 


MR. GILFIVS L 0 VE-S TOR Y. 


105 

old English letters, ‘"iFear (^ob anb l)onor tl)e King.” And 
beyond the party, who formed a half- moon with their chairs and 
well-furnished table round this bright fireplace, what a space 
of chiaroscuro for the imagination to revel in ! Stretching 
across the far end of the room, what an oak table, high enough 
surely for Homer’s gods, standing on four massive legs, 
bossed and bulging like sculptured urns land, lining the distant 
wall, what vast cupboards, suggestive of inexhaustible apricot 
jam and promiscuous butler’s perquisites ! A stray picture 
or two had found their way down there, and made agreeable 
patches of dark brown on the buff-colored walls. High over 
the loud-resounding double door hung one which, from some 
indications of a face looming out of blackness, might, by a 
great synthetic effort, be pronounced a Magdalen. Consider- 
ably lower down hung the similitude of a hat and feathers, 
with portions of a ruff, stated by Mrs. Bellamy to represent 
Sir Francis Bacon, who invented gunpowder, and, in her 
opinion, “ might ha’ been better emplyed.” 

But this evening the mind is but slightly arrested by the 
great Verulam, and is in the humor to think a dead philoso- 
pher less interesting than a living gardener, who sits conspic- 
uous in the half-circle round the fireplace. Mr. Bates is hab- 
itually a guest in the housekeeper’s room of an evening, 
preferring the social pleasures there — the feast of gossip 
and the flow of grog — to a bachelor’s chair in his charming 
thatched cottage on a little island where every sound is 
remote but the cawing of rooks and the screaming of wild 
geese : poetic sounds, doubtless, but, humanly speaking, not 
convivial. 

Mr. Bates was by no means an average person, to be 
passed without special notice. He was a sturdy Yorkshire- 
man, approaching forty, whose face Nature seemed to have 
colored when she was in a hurry, and had no time to attend 
to 7iuances., for every inch of him visible above his neckcloth 
was of one impartial redness ; so that when he was at some 
distance your imagination was at liberty to place his lips any- 
where between his nose and chin. Seen closer his lips were 
discerned to be of a peculiar cut, and I fancy this had some- 
thing to do with the peculiarity of his dialect, which, as we 
shall see, was individual rather than provincial. Mr. Bates 
was further distinguished from the common herd by a perpe- 
tual blinking of the eyes ; and this, together with the red-rose 
tint of his complexion, and a way he had of hanging his head 
forward, and rolling it from side to side as he walked, gave 


lo6 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 

him the air of a Bacchus in a blue apron, who, in the present 
reduced circumstances of Olympus, had taken to the manage- 
ment of his own vines. Yet, as gluttons are often thin, so 
sober men are often rubicund ; and Mr. Bates was sober, with 
that manly, British, churchman-like sobriety which can carry 
a few glasses of grog without any perceptible clarification of 
ideas. 

“ Dang my boottons ! ” observed Mr. Bates, who, at the 
conclusion of Mrs. Sharp’s narrative, felt himself urged to his 
strongest interjection ; “ it’s what I shouldn’t ha’ looked for 
from Sir Cristhifer an’ my ledy, to bring a furrin child into 
the coonthry ; an’ depend on’t, whether you an’ me lives to 
see’t or noa, it’ll coom to soom harm. The first sitiation iver 
I held — it was a hold hancient h abbey, wi’ the biggest or- 
chard o’ apples an’ pears you ever set — there was a French 
valet, an’ he stool silk stockins, an’ shirts, an’ rings, an’ ivery 
thin’ he could ley his hands on, an’ run awey at last wi’ th’ 
missis’s jewl-box. They’re all alaike, them furriners. It 
roons i’ th’ blood.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Sharp, with the air of a person who held 
liberal views, but knew where to draw the line, “ I’m not a- 
going to defend the furriners, for I’ve as good reason to know 
what they are as most folks, an’ nobody’ll ever hear me say 
but w^hat they’re next door to heathens, and the hile they eat 
wi’ their victuals is enough to turn any Christian’s stomach. 
But for all that — an’ for all as the trouble in respect o’ W'ash- 
in’ and managin’ has fell upo’me through the journey — I can’t 
say but w^hat I think as my Lady an’ Sir Cristifer’s done a 
right thing by a hinnicent child as doesn’t know its right 
hand from its left, i’ bringing it where it’ll learn to speak 
summat better nor gibberish, and be brought up i’ the tiue 
religion. For as for them furrin churches as Sir Cristifer 
is so unaccountable mad after, wi’ pictures o’ men an’ wxmcn 
a-showing themselves just for all the world as God made 
’em, I think, for my part, as it’s almost a sin to go into ’tm.” 

“ You’re likely to have more foreigners, how’ever,” said Mr. 
Warren, who liked to provoke the gardener, “for Sir Chris- 
topher has engaged some Italian workmen to help m the alter- 
ations in the house.” 

“ Olterations ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Bellamy, in alarm. “ What 
olterations ? ” 

“ Why,” answered Mr. Warren, “ Sir Christopher, as I un- 
derstand, is going to make a new thing of the old Manor- 
house, both inside and out. And he’s got portfolios full of 


MR, GJLF/L'S LOVE-STORY, 


107 

plans and pictures coming. It is to be cased with stone, in 
the Gothic style — pretty near like the churches, you know, as 
far as I can make out ; and the ceilings are to be beyond any- 
thing that’s been seen in the country. Sir Christopher’s been 
giving a deal of study to it.” 

“ Dear heart alive ! ” said Mrs. Bellamy, “ we shall be 
pisoned wi’ lime an’ plaster, an’ hev the house full o’ work- 
men colloguing wi’ the maids, an’ makin’ no end o’ mischief.” 

“ That ye may ley your life on, Mrs. Bellamy,” said Mr. 
Bates. “ Howiver, I’ll noot denay that the Goothic stayle’s 
prithy anoof, an’ it’s woonderful how near them stoon-carvers 
cuts oot the shapes o’ the pineapples, an’ shamrucks, an’ 
rooses. I dare sey Sir Cristifer’ll meek a naice thing o’ the 
Manor, an’ there woon’t be many gentlemen’s houses i’ the 
coonthry as’ll coom up to’t, wi’ sich a garden an’ pleasure- 
groons an’ wall-fruit as King George maight be prood on.” 

“Well, I can’t think as the house can be better nor it is. 
Gothic or no Gothic,” said Mrs. Bellamy ; “ an’ I’ve done the 
picklin’ and preservin’ in it fourteen years Michaelmas was a 
three weeks. But what does my lady say to’t ? ”. 

“ My lady knows better than cross Sir Cristifer in what 
he’s set his mind on,” said Mr. Bellamy, who objected to the 
critical tone of the conversation. “ Sir Gristifer’ll have his 
own way, that you may tek your oath. An’ i’ the right on’t 
too. He’s a gentleman born, an’s got the money. But come, 
Mester Bates, fill your glass, an’ we’ll drink health an’ 
happiness to his honor an’ my lady, and then you shall give 
us a song. Sir Cristifer dosen’t come hum from Italy ivery 
night.” 

This demonstrable position was accepted without hesita- 
tion as ground for a toast ; but Mr. Bates, apparently think- 
ing that his songs was not an equally reasonable sequence, 
ignored the second part of Mr. Bellamy’s proposal. So Mrs. 
Sharp, who had been heard to say that she had no thoughts 
at all of marrying Mr. Bates, though he was “ a sensable, fresh- 
colored man as many a woman ’ud snap at for a husband,” 
enforced Mr. Bellamy’a appeal. 

“ Come, Mr. Bates, let us hear ‘Roy’s Wife.’ I’d rether 
hear a good old song like that, nor all the fine Italian tood- 
lin.” 

Mr. Bates, urged thus flatteringly, stuck his thumbs into 
the armholes of his waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair 
with his head in that position in which he could look directly 
towards the zenith, and struck up a remarkably staccato ren- 


lo8 SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 

dering of “ Roy’s Wife of Alclivalloch.” This melody may 
certainly be taxed with excessive iteration, but that was pre- 
cisely its highest recommendation to the present audience, 
who found it all the easier to swell the chorus. Nor did it at 
all diminish their pleasure that the only particular concerning 
“ Roy’s Wife,” which Mr. Bates’s enunciation allowed them 
to gather, was that she “ chated ” him, — whether in the mat- 
ter of garden stuff or of some other commodity, or why her 
name should, in consequence, be repeatedly reiterated with 
exultation, remaining an agreeable mystery. 

Mr. Bates’s song formed the climax of the evening’s good- 
fellowship, and the party soon after dispersed — Mrs. Bellamy 
perhaps to dream of quicklime flying among her preserving- 
pans, or of love sick housemaids reckless of unswept corners 
— and Mrs. Sharp to sink into pleasant visions of indepen- 
dent house-keeping in Mr. Bates’s cottage, with no bells to 
answer, and with fruit and vegetables ad libitum. 

Caterina soon conquered ail prejudices against her foreign 
blood ; for what prejudices will hold out against helplessness 
and broken prattle ? She became the pet of the household, 
thrusting Sir Christopher’s favorite • bloodhound of that day, 
Mrs. Bellamy’s two canaries, and Mr. Bates’s largest Dorking 
hen, into a merely_secondary position. The consequence was, 
that in the space of a summer’s day she went through a great 
cycle of experiences, commencing with the somewhat acidu- 
lated good-will of Mrs. Sharp’s nursery discipline. Then came 
the grave luxury of her ladyship’s sitting-room, and, perhaps, 
the dignity of a ride on Sir Christopher’s knee, sometimes 
followed by a visit with him to the stables, where Caterina 
soon learned to hear without crying the baying of the chained 
bloodhounds, and say, with ostentatious bravery, clinging 
to Sir Christopher’s leg all the while, “ Dey not hurt Tina.” 
Then Mrs. Bellamy would perhaps be going out to gather the 
rose-leaves and lavender, and Tina was made proud and 
happy by being allowed to carry a handful in her pinafore ; 
happier still, when they were spread out on sheets to dry, so 
that she could sit down like a frog among them, and have them 
poured over her in fragrant showers. Another frequent pleas- 
ure was to take a journey with Mr. Bates through the kitchen- 
gardens and the hothouse, where the rich bunches of green 
and purple grapes hung from the roof, far out of reach of the 
tiny yellow hand that could not help stretching itself out 
towards them ; though the hand was sure at last to be satisfied 
with some delicate-flavored fruit or sweet-scented flower. 


MR. GILFIUS L O VE-S TOR Y. 


109 

Indeed, in the long, monotonous leisure of that great country- 
house, you may be sure there was always some one who had 
nothing better to do than to play with Tina. So that the 
little southern bird had its northern nest lined with tender- 
ness, and caresses, and pretty things. A loving sensitive 
nature was too likely, under such nurture, to have its suscepti- 
bility heightened into unfitness for an encounter with any 
harder experience ; all the more, because there were gleams 
of fierce resistance to any discipline that had a harsh or un- 
loving aspect. For the only thing in which Caterina showed 
any precocity was a certain ingenuity in vindictiveness. When 
she was five years old she had revenged herself for an un- 
pleasant prohibition by pouring the ink into Mrs. Sharp’s work- 
basket ; and once, when Lady Cheverel took her doll from 
hei, because she was affectionately licking the paint off its face, 
the litle minx straightway climbed on a chair and threw down 
a flower-vase that stood on a bracket. This was almost the 
only instance in which her anger overcame her awe of Lady 
Cheverel, who had the ascendency always belonging to kind- 
ness that never melts into caresses, and is severely but 
uniformly beneficent. 

By and by the happy monotony of Cheverel Manor was 
broken in upon in the way Mr. Warren had announced. The 
roads through the park were cut up by wagons carrying loads 
of stone from a neighboring quarry, the green courtyard be- 
came dusty with lime, and the peaceful house rang with the 
sound of tools. For the next ten years Sir Christopher was 
occupied with the architectural metamorphosis of his old 
family mansion ; thus anticipating, through the prompting of 
his individual taste, that general reaction from the insipid 
imitation of the Palladian style, towards a restoration of the 
Gothic, which marked the close of the eighteenth century. 
This was the object he had set his heart on, with a singleness 
of determination which was regarded with not a little contempt 
by his fox-hunting neighbors, who wondered greatly that a 
man with some of the best blood in England in his veins, 
should be mean enough to economize in his cellar, and re- 
duce his stud to two old coach-horses and a hack, for the 
sake of riding a hobby, and playing the architect. Their wives 
did not see so much to blame in the matter of the cellars and 
stables, but they were eloquent in pity for poor Lady Cheverel, 
who had to live in no more than three rooms at once, and 
who must be distracted with noises, and have her constitution 
undermined by unhealthy smells. It was as bad as having 


no 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


a husband with an asthma. Why did not Sir Christopher 
take a house for her at Bath, or, at least, if he must spend his 
time in overlooking workmen, somewhere in the neighborhood 
of the Manor ? This pity was quite gratuitous, as the most 
plentiful pity always is; for though Lady Cheverel did not 
share her husband’s architectural enthusiasm, she had too 
rigorous a view of a wife’s duties, and too profound a defer- 
ence for Sir Christopher, to regard submission as a grievance. 
As for Sir Christoph*er, he was perfectly indifferent to criticism. 
“ An obstinate, crotchety man,” said his neighbors. But I, 
who have seen Cheverel Manor, as he bequeathed it to his 
heirs, rather attribute that unswerving architectural purpose 
of his, conceived and carried out through long years of syste- 
matic personal exertion, to something of the fervor of genius, 
as well as inflexibility of will ; and in walking through those 
rooms, with their splendid ceilings and their meagre furniture, 
which tell how all the spare money had been absorbed before 
personal comfort was thought of, I have felt that there 
dwelt in this old English baronet some of that sublime spirit 
which distinguishes art from luxury, and worships beauty 
apart from self-indulgence. 

While Cheverel Manor was growing from ugliness into 
beauty, Caterina too was growing from a little yellow bant- 
ling into a whiter maiden, with no positive beauty indeed, but 
with a certain light airy grace, which, with her large appeal- 
ing dark eyes, and a voice that, in its low-toned tenderness 
recalled the love-notes of the stock-dove, gave her a more 
than usual charm. Unlike the building, however, Caterina’s 
development was the result of no systematic or careful appli- 
ances. She grew up very much like the primroses, which the 
gardener is not sorry to see within his enclosure, but takes no 
pains to cultivate. Lady Cheverel taught her to read and 
write, and say her catechism ; Mr. Warren, being a good ac- 
countant, gave her lessons in arithmetic, by her ladyship’s 
desire ; and Mrs. Sharp initiated her in all the mysteries of 
the needle. But for a long time, there was no thought of giv- 
ing her any more elaborate education. It is very likely that 
to her dying day Caterina thought the earth stood still, and 
that the sun and stars moved round it ; but so, for the matter 
of that, did Helen, and Dido, and Desdemona, and Juliet; 
whence I hope you will not think my Caterina less worthy to 
be a heroine on that account. The truth is, that, with one 
exception, her only talent lay in loving ; and there, it is prob- 
able, the most astronomical of women coul4 not have sur- 


MR. G/LFIL'S L 0 VE-S TOR K 


III 


passed her. Orphan and protegee though she was, this su- 
preme talent of hers found plenty of exercise at Cheverel Manor, 
and Caterina had more people to love than many a small lady 
and gentleman affluent in silver mugs and blood relations. 
I think the first place in her childish heart was given to Sir 
Christopher, for little girls are apt to attach themselves to the 
finest looking gentleman at hand, especially as he seldom has 
anything to do with discipline. Next to the baronet, came 
Dorcas, the merry rosy-cheeked damsel who was Mrs. Sharp’s 
lieutenant in the nursery, and thus played the part of the 
raisins in a dose of senna. It was a black day for Caterina 
when Dorcas married the coachman, and went, with a great 
sense of elevation in the world, to preside over a “ public ” in 
the noisy town of Sloppeter. A little china-box, bearing the 
motto “ Though lost to sight, to memory dear,” which Dorcas 
sent her as a remembrance, was among Caterina’s treasures 
ten years after. 

The one other exceptional talent, you already guess, was 
music. When the fact that Caterina had a remarkable ear 
for music, and a still more remarkable voice, attracted Lady 
Cheverel’s notice, the discovery was very welcome both to 
her and Sir Christopher. Her musical education became at 
once an object of interest. Lady Cheverel devoted much 
time to it; and the rapidity of Tina’s progress surpassing all 
hopes, an Italian singing-master was engaged for several 
years, to spend some months together at Cheverel Manor. 
This unexpected gift made a great 'alteration in Caterina’s 
position. After those first years in which little girls are 
petted like puppies and kittens, there comes a time when it 
seems less obvious what they can be good for, especially 
when, like Caterina, they give no particular promise of clev’ 
erness or beauty ; and it is not surprising that in that unin- 
teresting period there was no particular plan formed as to 
her future position. She could always help Mrs. Sharp, sup- 
posing she were fit for nothing else, as she grew up ; but now 
this rare gift of song endeared her to Lady Cheverel, who 
loved music above all things, and it associated her at once 
with the pleasures of the drawing-room. Insensibly she 
came to be regarded as one of the family, and the servants 
began to understand that Miss Sarti was to be a lady, 
after all. 

“And the raight on’t too,” said Mr. Bates, “for ^he 
hasn’t the cut of a gell as must work for her bread ; she’s as 


112 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


nesh an’ dilicate as a paich-blossom— welly laike a linnet, wi’ 
on’y joost body anoof to hold her voice.” 

But long before Tina had reached this stage of her his- 
tory, a new era had begun for her, in the arrival of a younger 
companion than any she had hitherto known. When she was 
no more than seven, a ward of Sir Christopher’s — a lad of 
fifteen, Maynard Gilfil by name — began to spend his vaca- 
tions at Cheverel Manor, and found there no playfellow so 
much to his mind as Caterina. Maynard was an affectionate 
lad, who retained a propensity to white rabbits, pet squirrels, 
and guinea-pigs, perhaps a little beyond the age at which 
young gentlemen usually look down on such pleasures as 
puerile. He was also much given to fishing, and to carpentry, 
considered as a fine art, without any base view to utility. 
And in all these pleasures it was his delight to have Caterina 
as his companion, to call her little pet names, answer her 
wondering questions, and have her toddling after him as you 
may have seen a Blenheim spaniel trotting after a large set- 
ter. Whenever Maynard went back to school, there was a 
little scene of parting. 

“ You won’t forget me, Tina, before I come back again ? 
I shall leave you all the whip-cord we’ve made ; and don’t 
you let Guinea die. Come, give me a kiss, and promise not 
to forget me.” 

As the years wore on, and Maynard passed from school 
to college, and from a slim lad to a stalwart young man, their 
companionship in the vacations necessarily took a different 
form, but it retained a brotherly and sisterly familiarity. 
With Maynard the boyish affection had insensibly grown into 
ardent love. Among all the many kinds of first love, that 
which begins in childish companionship is the strongest and 
most enduring: when passion comes to unite its force to 
long affection, love is at its spring-tide. And Maynard Gil- 
fil’s love was of a kind to make him prefer being tormented 
by Caterina to any pleasure, apart from her, which the most 
benevolent magician could have devised for him. It is the 
way with those tall large-limbed men, from Samson down- 
ward. As for Tina, the little minx was perfectly well aware 
that Maynard was her slave ; he was the one person in the 
world whom she did as she pleased with ; and I need not 
tell you that this was symptom of her being perfectly heart- 
whole so far as he was concerned : for a passionate woman’s 
love is always overshadowed by fear. 

Maynard Gilfil did not deceive himself in his interpreta- 


MR. GILFirS LOVE-STORY. 


1 13 

tion of Caterina’s feelings, but he nursed the hope that some 
time or other she would at least care enough for him to ac- 
cept his love. So he waited patiently for the day when he 
might venture to say, “ Caterina, I love you ! ”■ You see, he 
would have been content with very little, being one of those 
men who pass through life without making the least clamor 
about themselves ; thinking neither the cut of his coat, nor 
the flavor of his soup, nor the precise depth of a servant’s 
bow, at all momentous. He thought — foolishly enough, as 
lovers will think — that it was a good augury for him when 
he came to be domesticated at Cheverel Manor in the quality 
of chaplain there, and curate of a neighboring parish ; 
judging falsely, from his own case, that habit and affection were 
the likeliest avenues to love. Sir Christopher satisfied sev- 
eral feelings in installing Maynard as chaplain in his house. 
He liked the old-fashioned dignity of that domestic ap- 
pendage ; he liked his ward’s companionship ; and, as May- 
nard had some private fortune, he might take life easily in 
that agreeable home, keeping^ his hunter, and observing a 
mild regimen of clerical duty, until the Cumbermoor living 
should fall in, when he might be settled for life in the neigh- 
borhood of the manor. “ With Caterina for a wife, too,” 
Sir Christopher soon began to think ; for though the good 
Baronet was not at all quick to suspect what was unpleasant 
and opposed to his views of fitness, he was quick to see what 
would dovetail with his own plans ; and he had first guessed, 
and then ascertained by direct inquiry, the state of Maynard’s 
feelings. He at once leaped to the conclusion that Caterina 
was of the same mind, or at least would be, when she was 
old enough. But these were too early days for anything 
definite to be said or done. 

Meanwhile, new circumstances were arising, which, though 
they made no change in Sir Christopher’s plans and pros- 
pects, converted Mr. Gilfil’s hopes into anxieties, and made 
it clear to him not only that Caterina’s heart was never 
likely to be his, but that it was given entirely to another. 

Once or twice in Caterina’s childhood, there had been an- 
other boy-visitor at the manor, younger than Maynard Gilfil 
— a beautiful boy with brown curls and splendid clothes, on 
whom Caterina had looked with shy admiration. This was 
Anthony Wybrow, the son of Sir Christopher’s younger sister, 
and chosen heir of Cheverel Manor. The Baronet had 
sacrificed a large sum, and even straitened the resources by 
which he was to carry out his architectural schemes, for the 

% 


S CEASES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


I14 

sake of removing the entail from his estate, and making this 
boy his heir — moved to the step, I am sorry to say, by an 
implacable quarrel with his elder sister; for a power of for- 
giveness was not among Sir Christopher’s virtues. At length, 
on the death of Anthony’s mother, when he was no longer a 
curly-headed boy, but a tall young man, with a captain’s com- 
mission, Cheverel Manor became his home too, whenever he 
was absent from his regiment. Caterina was then a little 
woman, between sixteen and seventeen, and I need not spend 
many words in explaining what you perceive to be the most 
natural thing in the world. 

There was little company kept at the Manor, and Captain 
Wybrow would have been much duller if Caterina had not 
been there. It was pleasant to pay her attentions — to speak 
to her in gentle tones, to see her little flutter of pleasure, the 
blush that just lit up her pale cheek, and the momentary timid 
glance of her dark eyes, when he praised her singing, lean- 
ing at her side over the piano. Pleasant, too, to cut out 
that chaplain with his large calves ! What idle man can 
withstand the temptation of a woman to fascinate, and an- 
other man to eclipse ? — especially when it is quite clear to 
himself that he means no mischief, and shall leave every- 
thing to come right again by and by. At the end of eighteen 
months, however, during which Captain Wybrow had spent 
much of his time at the Manor, he found that matters had 
reached a point which he had not at all contemplated. Gentle 
tones had led to tender words, and tender words had called 
forth a response of looks which made it impossible not to 
carry on the crescendo of love-making. To find one’s self 
adored by a little, graceful, dark-eyed, sweet-singing woman, 
whom no one need despise, is an agreeable sensation, compar- 
able to smoking the finest Latakia, and also imposes some re- 
turn of tenderness as a duty. 

Perhaps you think that Captain Wybrow, who knew that 
it would be ridiculous to dream of his marrying Caterina, must 
have been a reckless libertine to win her affections in this man- 
ner ! Not at all. He was a young man of calm passions, who 
was rarely led into any conduct of which he could not give a 
plausible account to himself ; and the tiny fragile Caterina 
was a woman who touched the imagination and the affections 
rather than the senses. He really felt very kindly towards 
her, and would very likely have loved her — if he had been 
able to love any one. But nature had not endowed him with 
that capability. She had given him an admirable figure, the 


MR. GILFIVS L O VE-S TOR K 


1^5 

whitest of hands, the most delicate of nostrils, and a large 
amount of serene self-satisfaction ; but, as if to save such a 
delicate piece of work from any risk of being shattered, she 
had guarded him from the liability to a strong emotion. There 
was no list of youthful misdemeanors on record against him, 
and Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel thought him the best 
of nephews, the most satisfactory of heirs, full of grateful def- 
erence to themselves, and, above all things, guided by a sense 
of duty. Captain Wybrow always did the thing easiest and 
most agreeable to him from a sense of duty : he dressed ex- 
pensively, because it was a duty he owed to his position ; 
from a sense of duty he adapted himself to Sir Christopher’s 
inflexible will, which it would have been troublesome as well 
as useless to resist ; and, being of a delicate constitution, he 
took care of his health from a sense of duty. His health was 
the only point on which he gave anxiety to his friends ; and 
it was owing to this that Sir Christopher wished to see his 
nephew early married, the more so as a match after the Bar- 
onet’s own heart appeared immediately attainable. Anthony 
had seen and admired Miss Assher, the only child of a lady 
who had been Sir Christopher’s earliest love, but who, as 
things will happen in this world, had married another baronet 
instead of him. Miss Assher’s father was now dead, and she 
was in possession of a pretty estate. If, as was probable, she 
should prove susceptible to the merits of Anthony’s person 
and character, nothing could make Sir Christopher so happy 
as to see a marriage which might be expected to secure the 
inheritance of Cheverel Manor from getting into the wrong 
hands. Anthony had already been kindly received by Lady 
Assher as the nephew of her early friend ; why should he not 
go to Bath, where she and her daughter were then residing, 
follow up the acquaintance, and win a handsome, w'ell-born, 
and sufficiently wealthy bride ? 

Sir Christopher’s wishes were communicated to his nephew, 
who at once intimated his willingness to comply with them — 
from a sense of duty. Caterina was tenderly informed by her 
lover of the sacrifice demanded from them both ; and three 
days afterwards occurred the parting scene you have witnessed 
in the gallery, on the eve of Captain Wybrow’s departure for 
Bath. 


SCEA^ES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


Il6 


CHAPTER V. 

The inexorable ticking of the clock is like the throb of 
pain to sensations made keen by a sickening fear. And so it 
is with the great clockwork of nature. Daisies and butter- 
cups give way to the brown waving grasses, tinged with the 
warm red sorrel ; the waving grasses are swept away, and 
the meadows lie like emeralds set in the bushy hedgerows ; 
the tawny-tipped corn begins to bow with the weight of the 
full ear ; the reapers are bending amongst it, and it soon 
stands in sheaves ; then, presently, the patches of yellow 
stubble lie side by side with streaks of dark-red earth, which 
the plough is turning up in preparation for the new-threshed 
seed. And this passage from beauty to beauty, which to the 
happy is like the flow of a melody, measures for many a 
human heart the approach of foreseen anguish — seems hurry- 
ing on the moment when the shadow of dread will be followed 
ujD by the reality of despair. 

How cruelly hasty that summer of 1788 seemed to Cater- 
ina ! Surely the roses vanished earlier, and the berries on 
the mountain-ash were more impatient to redden, and bring 
on the autumn, when she would be face to face with her mis- 
ery, and witness Anthony giving all his gentle tones, tender 
words, and soft looks to another. 

Before the end of July, Captain Wybrow had written word 
that Lady Assher and her daughter were about to fly from the 
hent and gayety of Bath to the shady quiet of their place at 
Farleigh, and that he was invited to join the party there. His 
letters implied that he was on an excellent footing with both 
the ladies, and gave no hint of a rival ; so that Sir Chris- 
topher was more than usually bright and cheerful after read- 
ing them. At length, towards the close of August, came the 
announcement that Captain Wybrow was an accepted lover, 
and after much complimentary and congratulatory correspond- 
ence between the two families, it was understood that in 
September Lady Assher and her daughter would pay a visit 
to Cheverel Manor, when Beatrice would make the acquaint- 
ance of her future relatives, and all needful arrangements 
could be discussed. Captain Wybrow would remain at Far- 
leigh till then, and accompany the ladies on their journey. 

In the interval, every one at Cheverel Manor had some- 


MR, GILFirs LOVE-STORY. 


117 

thing to do by way of preparing for the visitors. Sir Chris- 
topher was occupied in consultations with his steward and 
lawyer, and in giving orders to every one else, especially in 
spurring on Francesco to finish the saloon. Mr. Gilfil had 
the responsibility of procuring a lady’s horse. Miss Assher 
being a great rider. Lady Cheverel had unwonted calls to 
mAke and invitations to deliver. Mr. Bates’s turf, and gravel, 
and flower-beds were always at such a point of neatness and 
finish that nothing extraordinary could be done in the garden, 
except a little extraordinary scolding of the under-gardener, 
and this adddition Mr. Bates did not neglect. 

Happily for Caterina, she too had her task, to fill up the 
long dreary daytime : it was to finish a chair-cushion which 
would complete the set of embroidered covers for the drawing- 
room, Lady Cheverel’s year-long work, and the only note- 
worthy bit of furniture in the Manor. Over this embroidery 
she sat with cold lips and a palpitating heart, thankful that 
this miserable sensation throughout the daytime seemed to 
counteract the tendency to' tears which returned with night 
and solitude. She was most frightened when Sir Christopher 
approached her. The Baronet’s eye was brighter and his step 
more elastic than ever, and it seemed to him that only the 
most leaden or churlish soul-s could be otherwise than brisk 
and exulting in a world where everything went so well. Dear 
old gentleman ! he had gone through life a little flushed with 
the power of his will, and now his latest plan was succeeding, 
and Cheverel Manor would be inherited by a grand-nephew, 
whom he might even yet live to see a fine young fellow with 
at least the down on his chin. Why not } one is still young 
at sixty. 

Sir Christopher had always something playful to say to 
Caterina. 

“ Now, little monkey, you must be in your best voice ; 
you’re the minstrel of the Manor, you know, and be sure you 
have a pretty gown and a new ribbon. You must not be 
dressed in russet, though you are a singing bird.” Or per-, 
haps, “ It is your turn to be courted next, Tina. But don’t 
you learn any naughty proud airs. I must have Maynard let 
off easily. 

Caterina’s affection for the old Baronet helped her to sum- 
mon up a smile as he stroked her cheek and looked at her 
kindly, but that was the moment at which she felt it most 
difficult not to burst out crying. Lady Cheverel’s conversa- 
tion and presence were less trying ; for her ladyship felt no 


ii8 


SCENES OF CLEFICAL LIFE, 


more than calm satisfaction in this family event \ and besides, 
she was further sobered by a little jealousy at Sir Christopher’s 
anticipation of pleasure in seeing Lady Assher, enshrined in 
his memory as a mild-eyed beauty of sixteen, with whom he 
had exchanged locks before he went on his first travels. Lady 
Cheverel would have died rather than confess it,, but she 
couldn’t help hoping that he would be disappointed in Lady 
Assher, and rather ashamed of having called her so charm- 
ing. 

Mr. Gilfil watched Caterina through these days with 
mixed feelings. Her suffering went to his heart ; but, even 
for her sake, he was glad that a love which could never come 
to good should be no longer fed by false hopes ; and how 
could he help saying to himself, “ Perhaps, after a while, Cate- 
rina will be tried of fretting about that cold-hearted puppy, 
and then . . . .” 

At length the much-expected day arrived, and the bright- 
est of September suns was lighting up the yellowing lime- 
trees, as about five o’clock Lady Assher’s carriage drove 
under the portico. Caterina, seated at work in her own 
room, heard the rolling of the wheels, followed presently by 
the opening and shutting of doors, and the sound of voices 
in the corridors. Remembering that the dinner hour was 
six, and that Lady Cheverel had desired her to be in the 
drawing-room early, she started up to dress, and was delighted 
to find herself feeling suddenly brave and strong. Curiosity 
to see Miss Assher — the thought that Anthony was in the 
house — the wish not to look unattractive, were feelings that 
brought ^ome color to her lips, and made it easy to attend to 
her toilette. They w'ould ask her to sing this evening, and 
she would sing well. Miss Assher should not think her ut- 
terly insignificant. So she put on her gray silk gown and her 
cherry-colored ribbon with as much care as if she had been 
herself the betrothed ; not forgetting the pair of round pearl 
ear-rings which Sir Christopher had told Lady Cheverel to 
give her, because Tina’s little ears were so pretty\ 

Quick as she had been, she found Sir Christopher and 
Lady Cheverel in the drawing-room chatting with Mr. Gilfil, 
and telling him how handsome Miss Assher was, but how en- 
tirely unlike her mother — apparently resembling her father 
only. 

“ Aha ! ” said Sir Christopher, as he turned to look at 
Caterina, “ what do you think of this, Maynard? Did you 
ever see Tina look so pretty before ? Why, that little gray 


MR. GlLFinS LOVE-STORY. 


119 


gown has been made out of a bit of my lady’s, hasn’t it ? It 
doesn’t take anything much larger than a pocket-handker- 
chief to dress the little monkey.” 

Lady Cheverel, too, serenely radiant in the assurance a 
single glance had given her of Lady Assher’s inferiority, 
smiled approval, and Caterina was in one of those moods of 
self-possession and indifference which come as the ebb-tide 
between the struggles of passion. She retired to the piano, 
and busied herself with arranging her music, not all insensi- 
ble to the pleasure of being looked at with admiration the 
while, and thinking that, the next time the door opened Cap- 
tain Wybrow would enter, and she would speak to him quite 
cheerfully. But when she heard him come in, and the scent 
of roses floated towards her, her heart gave one great leap. 
She knew nothing Jill he was pressing her hand, and saying, 
in the old easy way, “ Well, Caterina, how do you do ? You 
look quite blooming.” 

She felt her cheeks reddening with anger that he could 
speak and look with such perfect nonchalance. Ah ! he was 
too deeply in love with some one else to remember anything 
he had felt for Ler. But the next moment she was conscious 
of her folly ; “ as if he could show any feeling then ! ” This 
conflict of emotions stretched into a long interval the few 
moments that elapsed before the door opened again, and her 
own attention, as well as that of all the rest, was absorbed by 
the entrance of the two ladies. 

The daughter was the more striking, from the contrast 
she presented to her mother, a round-shouldered, middle- 
sized woman, who had once had the transient pink-and-white 
beauty of a blonde, with ill-defined features and early embon- 
point. Miss Assher was tall, and gracefully though substan- 
tially formed, carrying herself- with an air of mingled gracious- 
ness and self-confidence ; her dark-brown hair, untouched by 
powder, hanging in bushy curls round her face, and falling 
behind in long thick ringlets nearly to her waist. The bril- 
liant carmine tint of her well-rounded cheeks, and the finely- 
cut outline of her straight nose, produced an impression of 
splendid beauty, in spite of commonplace brown eyes, a nar- 
row forehead, and thin lips. She was in mourning, and the 
dead black of her crape dress, relieved here and there by jet 
ornaments, gave the fullest effect to her complexion, and to 
the rounded whiteness of her arms, bare from the elbow 
The first ^:oup ({‘ceil was dazzling, and as she stood looking 
down with a gracious smile on Caterina, whom Lady Cheverel 


120 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


was presenting to her, the poor little thing seemed to feel, 
for the first time, all the folly of her former dream. 

“ We are enchanted with your place. Sir Christopher,” 
said Lady Assher, with a feeble kind of pompousness, which 
she seemed to be copying from some one else ; “ I’m sure 
your nephew must have thought Farleigh wretchedly out of 
order. Poor Sir John was so very careless about keeping up 
the house and grounds. I often talked to him about it, but 
he said, ‘ Pooh, pooh ! as long as my friends find a good din- 
ner, and a good bottle of wine, they won’t care about my 
ceilings being rather smoky.’ He was so very hospitable, 
was Sir John.” 

“ I think the view of the house from the park, just after 
we passed the bridge, particularly fine,” said Miss Assher, 
interposing rather eagerly, as if she feared her mother might 
be making infelicitous speeches, “ and the pleasure of the 
first glimpse was all the greater because Anthony would de- 
scribe nothing to us beforehand. He would not spoil our 
first impressions by raising false ideas. I long to go over 
the house, Sir Christopher, and learn the history of all your 
architectural designs, which Anthony says have cost you so 
much time and study.” 

“ Take care how you set an old man talking about the 
past, my dear,” said the Baronet ; “ I hope we shall find 
something pleasanter for you to do than turning over my 
old plans and pictures. Our friend Mr. Gilfil here has found 
a beautiful mare for you, and you can scour the country to 
your heart’s content. Anthony has sent us wotd what a 
horsewoman you are.” 

Miss Assher turned to Mr. Gilfil with her most beaming 
smile, and expressed her thanks with the elaborate gracious- 
ness of a person who means to-be thought charming, and is 
sure of success. 

“ Pray do not thank me,” said Mr. Gilfil, “ till you have 
tried the mare. She has been ridden by Lady Sara Linter 
for the last two years ; but one lady’s taste may not be like 
another’s in horses, any more than in other matters.” 

While this conversation was passing. Captain Wybrow 
was leaning against the mantel-piece, contenting himself with 
responding frorn under his indolent eyelids to the glances 
Miss Assher was constantly directing towards him as she 
spoke. “ She is very much in love with him,” thought Cate- 
rina. But she was relieved that Anthony remained passive 
in his attentions. She thought, too, that he was looking paler 


MR. GILFWS LOVE-STORY. 


I2I 


and more languid than usual. “ If he didn’t love her very- 
much — if he sometimes thought of the past with regret, I 
think I could bear it all, and be glad to see Sir Christopher 
made happy.” 

During dinner there was a little incident which confirmed 
these thoughts. When the sweets were on the table, there 
was a mould of jelly just opposite Captain Wybrow, and being 
inclined to take some Himself, he first invited Miss Assher, 
who colored, and said, in rather a sharper key than usual, 
“ Have you not learned by this time that I never take 
jelly ? ” 

“ Don’t you ? ” said Captain Wybrow, whose perceptions 
were not acute enough for him to notice the difference of a 
semitone. “ I should have thought you were fond of it. 
There was always some on the table at Farleigh, I think.” 

“ You don’t seem to take much interest in my likes and 
dislikes.” 

“ I’m too much possessed by the happy thought that you 
like me,” was the ex officio reply in silvery tones. 

This little episode was unnoticed by every one but Cate- 
rina. Sir Christopher was listening with polite attention to 
Lady Assher’s history of her last man-cook, who was first rate 
at gravies, and for that reason pleased Sir John — he was so 
particular about his gravies, was Sir John : and so they kept 
the man six years in spite of his bad pastry. Lady Cheverel 
and Mr. Gilfil were smiling at Rupert the bloodhound, who 
had pushed his great head under his master’s arm, and was 
taking a survey of the dishes, after snuffing at the contents of 
the Baronet’s plate. 

Whdn the ladies were in the drawing-room again. Lady 
Assher was soon deep in a statenment to Lady Cheverel of 
her views about burying people in woollen. ^ ^ 

“ To be sure, you must have a woollen dress, because it’s 
the law, you know; but that need hinder no one from put- 
ting linen underneath. I always used to say, ‘ If Sir John 
died to-morrow, I would bury him in his shirt ; ’ and I did. 
And let me advise you to do so by Sir Christopher. You 
never saw Sir John, Lady Cheverel. He was a large tall man 
with a nose just like Beatrice, and so very particular about 

his shirts.” i 

Miss Assher, meanwhile, had seated herself by Caterina, 
and, with that smiling affability which seems to say, “ I am 
really not at all proud, though you might expect it of me. 
said. 


122 


SCEN'ES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


“ Anthony tells me you sing so very beautifully. I hope 
we shall hear you this evening.” 

“ Oh yes,” said Caterina quietly, without smiling ; “ I al- 
ways sing when I’m wanted to sing.” 

“ I envy you such a charming talent. Do you know, I 
have no ear ; I can not hum the smallest tune, and I delight 
in music so. Is it not unfortunate ? But I shall have quite 
a treat while I am here ; Captain Wybrow says you will give 
us some music every day.” 

I should have thought you wouldn’t care about music if 
you had no ear,” said Caterina, becoming epigrammatic by 
force of grave simplicity. 

“ Oh, I assure you I dote on it ] and Anthony is so fond 
of it ; it would be so delightful if I could play and sing to 
him ; though he says he likes me best not to sing, because it 
doesn’t belong to his idea of me. What style of music do you 
like best 1 ” 

“ I don’t know. I like all beautiful music.” 

“ And are you as fond of riding as of music ? ” 

“ No ; I never ride. I think I should be very frightened.” 

“ Oh no ! indeed you would not, after a little practice. I 
have never been in the least timid. I think Anthony is more 
afraid for me than I am for myself ; and since I have been 
riding with him, I have been obliged to be more careful, be- 
cause he is so nervous about me.” 

Caterina made no reply ; but she said to herself, I wish 
she would go away and not talk to me. She only wants me 
to admire her good-nature, and to talk about Anthony.” 

Miss Assher was thinking at the same time, “ This Miss 
Sard seems a stupid little thing. Those musical people often 
are. But she is prettier than I expected ; Anthony said she 
was not pretty.” 

Happily at this moment Lady Assher called her daughter’s 
attention to the embroidered cushions, and Miss Assher, walk- 
ing to the opposite sofa, was soon in conversation with Lady 
Cheverel about tapestry and embroidery in general, while her 
mother, feeling herself superseded there, came and placed her- 
self beside Caterina. 

“ I hear you are the most beautiful singer,” was of course 
the opening remark. “ All Italians sing so beautifully. I 
travelled in Italy with Sir John when we were first married 
and we went to Venice, where they go about in gondolas, you 
know. You don’t wear powder, I see. No more will Beatrice; 
though many people think her curls would look all the better 


MR. GILFIVS LOVE-STORY. 


123 


for powder. She has so much hair, hasn’t she ? Our last maid 
dressed it much better than this ; but, do you know, she wore 
Beatrice’s stockings before they went to the wash, and we 
couldn’t keep her after that, could we ? ” 

Caterina, accepting the question as a mere bit of rhetorical 
effect, thought it superfluous to reply, till Lady Assher 
repeated, “ Could we, now ? ” as if Tina’s sanction were 
essential to her repose of mind. After a faint “No,” she 
went on. 

“ Maids are so very troublesome, and Beatrice is so par- 
ticular, you can’t imagine. I often say to her, ‘ My dear, you 
can’t have perfection.’ That very gown she has on — to be 
sure, it fits her beautifully now — but it has been unmade and 
made up again twice. But she is like poor Sir John — he was 
so very particular about his own things, was Sir John. Is 
Lady Cheverel particular ? ” 

“ Rather. But Mrs. Sharp has been her maid twenty 
years.” 

“ I wish there was any chance of our keeping Griffin twen- 
ty years. But I am afraid we shall have to part with her 
because her health is so delicate ; and she is so obstinate, she 
will not take bitters as I want her. Voii look delicate, now. 
Let me recommend you to take camomile tea in a morning, 
fasting. Beatrice is so strong and healthy, she never takes 
any medicine ; but if I had had twenty girls, and they had 
been delicate, I should have given them all camomile tea. It 
strengthens the constitution beyond anything. Now, will you 
promise me to take camomile tea ? ” 

“ Thank you ; I’m not at all ill,” said Caterina. “ I’ve al- 
ways been pale and thin.” 

Lady Assher was sure camomile tea w^ould make all the 
difference in the world — Caterina must see if it wouldn’t — 
and then went dribbling on like a leaky shower-bath, until 
the early entrance of the gentlemen created a diversion, and 
she fastened on Sir Christopher, who probably began to think 
that, for poetical purposes, it would be better not to meet one’s 
first love again, after a lapse of forty years. 

Captain Wybrow, of course, joined his aunt and Miss 
Assher, and Mr. Gilfil tried to relieve Caterina from the awk- 
wardness of sitting aloof and dumb, by telling her how a friend 
of his had broken his arm and staked his horse that morning, 
not at all appearing to heed that she hardly listened, and was 
looking towards the other side of the room. One of the tor- 
tures of jealousy is, that it can never turn away its eyes from 


124 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


By and by every one felt the need of a relief from chit-chat 
— Sir Christopher perhaps the most of all — and it was he who 
made the acceptable proposition — 

“ Come, Tina, are we to have no music to-night before we 
sit down to cards ? Your ladyship plays at cards, I think ? ” 
he added, recollecting himself, and turning to Lady Assher. 

“Oh yes ! Poor dear Sir John would have a whist- table 
every night.” 

Caterina sat down to the harpischord at once, and had no 
sooner begun to sing than she perceived with delight that 
Captain Wybrow was gliding towards the harpsichord, and 
soon standing in the old place. This consciousness gave fresh 
strength to her voice ; and when she noticed that Miss Assher 
presently followed him with that air of ostentatious admiration 
which belongs to the absence of real enjoyment, her closing 
bravura was none the worse for being animated by a little 
triumphant contempt. 

“ Why, you are in better voice than ever, Caterina,” said 
Captain Wybrow, when she had ended. “ This is rather dif- 
ferent from Miss Hibbert’s small piping that we used to be 
glad of at Farleigh, it is not, Beatrice ?” 

“ Indeed it is. You are a most enviable creature. Miss 
Sarti — Caterina — may I call you Caterina ? for I have heard 
Anthony speak of you so ofton, I seem to know you quite 
well. You will let me call you Caterina ? ” 

“ Oh yes, every one calls me Caterina, only when they call 
me Tina.” 

“ Come, come, more singing, more singing, little monkey,” 
Sir Christopher called out from the other side of the room. 
“ We have not had half enough yet.” 

Caterina was ready enough to obey, for while she was sing- 
ing she was queen of the room, and Miss Assher was reduced 
to grimacing admiration. Alas ! you see what jealousy was 
doing in this poor young soul. Caterina, who had passed her 
life as a little unobtrusive singing-bird, nestling so fondly under 
the wings that were outstretched for her, her heart beating 
only to the peaceful rhythm of love, or fluttering with some 
easily stifled fear, had begun to know the fierce palpitations 
of triumph and hatred. 

When the singing was over, Sir Christopher and Lady 
Cheverel sat down to whist with Lady Assher and Mr. Gilfil, 
and Caterina placed herself at the, Baronet’s elbow, as if to 
watch the game, that she might not appear to thrust herself 
on the pair of lovers. At first she was glowing with her little 


GILFWS LOVE-STORY. 


125 

triumph, and felt the strength of pride \ but her eye 7vould 
steal to the opposte side of the fireplace, where Captain 
Wybrow had seated himself close to Miss Assher, and was 
leaning with his arm over the back of the chair, in the most 
lover-like position. Caterina began to feel a choking sensa- 
tion. She could see, almost without looking, that he was 
taking up her arm to examine her bracelet ; their heads were 
bending close together, her curls touching his cheek — now he 
was putting his lips to her hand. Caterina felt her cheeks 
burn^ — she could sit no longer. She got up, pretended to be 
gliding about in search of something, and at length slipped 
out of the room. 

Outside, she took a candle, and, hurrying along the pas- 
sages and up the stairs to her own room, locked the door. 

“ Oh, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it ! ” the poor thing 
burst out aloud, clasping her little fingers, and pressing them 
back against her forehead, as if she wanted to break them. 

Then she walked hurriedly up and down the room. 

“ And this must go on for days and days, and I must 
see it.” 

She looked about nervously for something to clutch. 
There was a muslin kerchief lying on the table ; she took it 
up and tore it into shreds as she walked up and down, and 
then pressed it into hard balls in her hand. 

“ And Anthony,” she thought, “ he can do this without 
caring for what I feel. Oh he can forget everything : how he 
used to say he loved me — how he used to take my hand in 
his as we walked — how he used to stand near me in the even- 
ings for the sake of looking into my e^es.” 

“ Oh, it is cruel, it is cruel ! ” she burst out again aloud, as 
all those love-moments in the past returned upon her. Then 
the tears gushed forth, she threw herself on her knees by the 
bed, and sobbed bitterly. 

She did not know how long she had been there, till she 
was startled by the prayer-bell ; when, thinking Lady Chev- 
erel might perhaps send some one to inquire after her, she 
rose, and began hastily to undress, that there might be no 
possibility of her going down again. She had hardly unfast- 
ened her hair, and thrown a loose gown about her, before 
there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Sharp’s voice said — 
“ Miss Tina, my lady wants to know if you’re ill.” 

Caterina opened the door and said, “ Thank you, dear 
Mrs. Sharp ; I have a bad headache ; please tell my lady I 
felt it come on after singing.” 


t26 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


“ Then, goodness me ! why arn’t you in bed, instead 
standing shivering there, fit to catch your death ? Come, let 
me fasten up your hair and tuck you up warm.” 

“ Oh no, thank you j I shall really be in bed veiy^ soon. 
Good-night, dear Sharpy; don’t scold; I will be good, and 
get into bed.” 

Caterina kissed her old friend coaxingly, but Mrs. Sharp 
was not to be come over ” in that way, and insisted on see- 
ing her former charge in bed, taking away the candle which 
the poor child had wanted to keep as a companion. 

But it was impossible to lie there long with that beating 
heart ; and the little white figure was soon out of bed again, 
seeking relief in the very sense of. chill and uncomfort. It 
was light enough for her to see about her room, for the moon, 
nearly at full, was riding high in the heavens among scattered 
hurrying clouds. Caterina drew aside the windown-curtain ; 
and, sitting with her forehead pressed against the cold pane, 
looked out on the wide stretch of park and lawn. 

How dreary the moonlight is ! robbed of all its tenderness 
and repose by the hard driving wind. The trees are har- 
assed by that tossing motion, when they would like to be at 
rest ; the shivering grass makes her quake with sympathetic 
cold ; and the willows by the pool, bent low and white under 
that invisible harshness, seem agitated and helpless like her- 
self. But she loves the scene the better for its sadness : there 
is some pity in it. It is not like that hard unfeeling happi 
ness of lovers, flaunting in the eyes of misery. 

She set her teeth tight against the window-frame, and the 
tears fell thick and fast. She was so thankful she could cry, 
for the mad passion she had felt when her eyes were dry 
frightened her. If that dreadful feeling were to come on 
when Lady Cheverel was present, she should never be able to 
contain herself. 

Then there was Sir Christopher — so good to her — so 
happy about Anthony’s marriage and all the while she had 
these wicked feelings. 

“ Oh, I cannot help it, I cannot help it ! ” she said in a 
loud whisper between her sobs. “ O God, have pity upon 
me ! ” 

In this way Tina wore out the long hours of the windy 
moolight, till at last, with weary aching limbs, she lay down 
in bed again, and slept from mere exhaustion. 

While this poor little heart was being bruised with a weight 
too heavy for it. Nature was holding on her calm inexorable 


MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. I2y 

way, in unmoved and terrible beauty. The stars were rush- 
ing in their eternal courses ; the tides swelled to the level of 
the last expectant weed j the sun was making brilliant day to 
busy nations on the other side of the swift earth, the 
stream of human thought and deed was hurrying and broad- 
ening onward. The astronomer was at his telescope; the 
great ships were laboring over the waves ; the toiling eager- 
ness of commerce, the fierce spirit of revolution, were only 
ebbing in brief rest ; and sleepless statesmen were dreading 
the possible crisis of the morrow. What were our little Tina 
and her trouble in this mighty torrent, rushing from one aw- 
ful unknown to another ? Lighter than the smallest centre 
of quivering life in the water-drop, hidden and uncared for 
as the pulse of anguish in the breast of the tiniest bird that 
has fluttered down to its nest with the long-sought food, and 
has found the nest torn and empty. 


CHAPTER VI. 

The next morning w'hen Caterina was waked from her 
heavy sleep by Martha bringing in the warm water, the sun 
was shining, the wind had abated, and those hours of suffer- 
ing in the night seemed unreal and dreamlike, in spite of 
weary limbs and aching eyes. She got up and began to dress 
with a strange feeling of insensibility, as if nothing could 
make her cry again ; and she even felt a sort of longing to be 
down stairs in the midst of company, that she might get rid 
of this benumbed condition by contact. 

There are few of us that are not rather ashamed of our 
sins and follies as we look out on the blessed morning sun- 
light, which comes to us like a bright-winged angel beckon- 
ing us to quit the old path of vanity that stretches its dreary 
length behind us; and Tina, little as she knew^ about doc- 
trines and theories, seemed to herself to have been both fool- 
ish and wicked yesterday. To-day she would try to be good; 
and when she knelt down to say her short prayer — the veiyr 
form she had learned by heart when she was ten years old — 
she added, “ O God, help me to bear it ! ” 

That day the prayer seemed to be answered, for after 
some remarks on her pale looks at breakfast, Caterina passed 


128 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


the morning quietly, Miss Assher and Captain Wybrow be* 
mg out on a riding excursion. In the evening there was a 
dinner-party, and after Caterina had sung a little. Lady Chev- 
erel, remembering that she was ailing, sent her to bed, where 
she soon sank into a deep sleep. Body and mind must renew 
their force to suffer as well as to enjoy. 

On the morrow, however, it was rainy, and every one must 
stay in-doors ; so it was resolved that the guests should be 
taken over the house by Sir Christopher, to hear the story 
of the architectural alterations, the family portraits, and the 
family relics. All the party, except Mr. Gilfil, were in the 
drawing-room when the proposition was made ; and when 
Miss Assher rose to go, she looked towards Captain Wybrow, 
expecting to see him rise too ; but he kept his seat near the 
fire, turning his eyes towards the newspaper which he had 
been holding unread in his hand. 

“ Are you not coming. An thony ? ” said Lady Cheverel, 
noticing Miss Assher’s look of expectation. 

“ I think not, if you’ll excuse me,” he answered, rising 
and opening the door ; “ I feel a little chilled this morning, 
and, I am afraid of the cold rooms and draughts.” 

Miss Assher reddened, but said nothing, and passed on, 
Lady Cheverel accompanying her. 

Caterina was seated at work in the oriel window. It was 
the first time she and Anthony had been alone together, and 
she had thought before that he wished to avoid her. But 
now, surely, he wanted to speak to her — he wanted to say 
something kind. Presently he rose from his seat near the 
tire, and placed himself on the ottoman opposite to her. 

“Well, lina, and how have you been all this long time ?” 

Both the tone and the words were an offence to her ; the 
tone was so different from the old one, the words were so 
cold and unmeaning. She answered with a little bitterness, 

“ I think you needn’t ask. It doesn’t make much differ- 
ence to you.” 

“ Is that the kindest thing you have to say to me after my 
long absence ? ” 

“ I don’t know why you should expect me to say kind 
things.” 

Captain Wybrow was silent. He wished very much to 
avoid allusions to the past or comments on the present. And 
yet he wished to be well with Caterina. He would have liked 
to caress her, make her presents, and have her think him very 
kind to her. But these women are plaguy perverse ! There’g 


MR. GILFIUS LOVE-STORY. 


129 


no bringing them to look rationally at anything. At last he 
said, “ I hoped you would think all the better of me, Tina, 
for doing as I have done, instead of bearing malice towards 
me. I hoped you would see that it is the best thing for every 
one — the best for your happiness too.” 

Oh, pray don’t make love to Miss Assher for the sake 
of my happiness,” answered Tina. 

At this moment the door opened, and Miss Assher en- 
tered, to fetch her reticule, which lay on the harpsichord. She 
gave a keen glance at Caterina, whose face was flushed, and 
saying to Captain Wybrow with a slight sneer, “ Since you 
are so chill I w’onder you like to sit in the window,” left the 
room again immediately. 

The lover did not appear much discomposed, but sat quiet 
a little longer, and then, seating himself on the music-stool, 
drew it near to Caterina, and, taking her hand, said, “ Come, 
Tina, look kindly at me, and let us be friends. I shall al- 
ways be your friend.” 

“Thank you,” said Caterina, drawing away her hand. 
“ You are very generous. But pray move away. Miss Assher 
may come in again.” 

“Miss Assher be hanged!” said Anthony, feeling the 
fascination of the old habit returning on him in his proximity 
to Caterina. He put his arm round her waist, and leaned 
his cheek down to hers. The lips couldn’t help meeting after 
that ; but the next moment, with heart swelling and tears 
rising, Caterina burst away from him, and rushed out of the 
room. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Caterina tore herself from Anthony with the desperate 
effort of one who has just self-recollection enough left to be 
conscious that the fumes of charcoal will master his senses 
unless he bursts a way for himself to the fresh air ; but when 
she reached her own room, she was still too intoxicated with 
that momentary revival of old emotions, too much agitated 
by the sudden return of tenderness in her lover, to know 
whether pain or pleasure predominated. It was as if a mira- 
cle had happened in her little world of feeling, and made the 

9 


130 


[ SCENES OE CLERICAL LIFE, 


future all vague — a dim morning haze of possibilities, in- 
stead of the sombre wintry daylight and clear rigid outline of 
painful certainty. 

She felt the need of rapid movement. She must walk 
out in spite of the rain. Happily, there was a thin place in 
the curtain of clouds which seemed to promise that now, 
about noon, the day had a mind to clear up. Caterina 
thought to herself, “ I will walk to the Mosslands, and carry 
Mr. Bates the comforter I have made for him, and then Lady 
Cheverel will not wonder so much at my going out.” At the 
hall door she found Rupert, the old bloodhound, stationed on 
the mat, with the determination that the first person who was 
sensible enough to take a walk that morning should have the 
honor of his approbation and society. As he thrust his great 
black and tawny head under her hand, and wagged his tail 
with vigorous eloquence, and reached the climax of his wel- 
come by jumping up to lick her face, which was at a con- 
venient licking height for him, Caterina felt quite grateful to 
the old dog for his friendliness. Animals are such agreeable 
friends — they ask no questions, the}^ pass no criticisms. 

The “ Mosslands ” was a remote part of the grounds, en- 
circled by the little stream issuing from the pool ; and cer- 
tainly, for a wet day, Caterina could hardly have chosen a less 
suitable walk, for though the rain was abating, and presently 
ceased altogether, there was still a smart shower falling from 
the trees which arched over the greater part of the way. 
But. she found just the desired relief from her feverish excite- 
ment in laboring along the wet paths with an umbrella that 
made her arm ache. This amount of exertion was to her 
tiny body what a day’s hunting often was to Mr. Gilfil, who 
at times had his fits of jealousy and sadness to get rid of, and 
wisely had recourse to nature’s innocent opium — fatigue. 

When Caterina reached the pretty arched wooden bridge 
which formed the only entrance to the Mosslands for any but 
webbed feet, the sun had mastered the clouds, and was shin- 
ing through the boughs of the tall elms that made a deep 
nest for the gardener’s cottage — turning the rain-drops into 
diamonds, and inviting the nasturtium flowers creeping over 
the porch and low-thatched roof to lift up their flame-colored 
heads once more. The rooks were cawing with many-voiced 
monotony, apparently — by a remarkable approximation to 
human intelligence — finding great conversational resources 
in the change of weather. The mossy turf, studded with the 
broad blades of marsh-loving plants, told that Mr. Bates’s 


MR. GILFIVS LOVE-STORY. 


13I 

nest was rather damp in the best of weather ; but ne was of 
opinion that a little external moisture would hurt no man 
who was not perversely neglectful of that obvious and provi- 
dential antidote, rum-and-water. 

Caterina loved this nest. Every object in it, every sound 
that haunted it, had been familiar to her from the days when 
she had been carried thither on Mr. Bates’s arm, making little 
cawing noises to imitate the rooks, clapping her hands at the 
green frogs leaping in the moist grass, and fixing grave eyes 
on the gardener’s fowls cluck-clucking under their pens. 
And now the spot looked prettier to her than ever ; it was so 
out of the way of Miss Assher, with her brilliant beauty, and 
personal claims, and small civil remarks. She thought Mr. 
Bates would not be come into his dinner yet, so she would sit 
dow’n and wait for him. 

But she was mistaken. Mr. Bates w'as seated in his arm- 
chair, with his pocket-handkerchief thrown over his face, as the 
most eligible mode of passing away those superfluous hours 
between meals when the weather drives a man in-doors. 
Roused by the furious barking of his chained bulldog, he de- 
scried his little favorite approaching and forthwith presented 
himself at the doorway, looking disproportionately tall com- 
pared with the height of his cottage. The Bulldog, mean- 
while, unbent from the severity of his official demeanor, and 
commenced a friendly interchange of ideas with Rupert. 

Mr. Bates’s hair was now gray, but his frame was none the 
less stalwart, and his face looked all the redder, making an 
artistic contrast with the deep blue of his cotton neckerchief, 
and of his linen apron twisted into a girdle round his waist. 

“Why, dang my boottons. Miss Tiny,” he exclaimed, 
“hoo coom ye to coom out dabblin’ your faet laike a little 
Muscovy duck, sich a day as this ? Not but what ai’m de- 
laighted to sae ye. Here, Hesther,” he called to his old hump- 
backed housekeeper, “tek the young ledy’s oombrella an' 
spread it out to dray. Coom, coom in. Miss Tiny, an’ set ye 
doon by the faire an’ dray yer faet an’ hev summat warm to 
kape ye from ketchin’ coold.” 

Mr. Bates led the way, stooping under the doorplaces, into 
his small sitting-room, and, shaking the patch-work cushion in 
his arm chair, moved it to within a good roasting distance of 
the blazing fire. 

“ Thank you, uncle Bates ” (Caterina kept up her childish 
epithets for her friends, and this was one of them) ; “ not quite 
so close to the fire, for i am warm with walking.” 


1^2 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


“ Eh, but yer shoes are faine an’ wet, an’ ye must put up 
yer faet on the fender. Rare big faet, baint ’em ?— aboot the 
saize of a good big spoon. I woonder ye can mek a shift to 
Stan’ on ’em. Now, what’ll ye hev to warm yer insaide ?— a 
drop o’ hot elder wain, now ? ” 

“ No, not anything to drink, thank you ; it isn’t very long 
since breakfast,” said Caterina, drawing out the comforter 
from her deep pocket. Pockets were capacious in those days. 
“ Look here, uncle Bates, here is what I came to bring you. 
I made it on purpose for you. You must wear it this winter, 
and give your red one to old Brooks.” 

“Eh, Miss Tiny, this is a beauty. An’ ye made it all wi’ 
yer little fingers for an old feller laike mae ! I tek it very 
kaind on ye, an’ I belave ye I’ll wear it, and be prood on t 
too. These sthraipes, blue an’ whaite, now, they mek it un- 
common pritty.” 

“Yes, that will suit your complexion, you know, better 
than the old scarlet one. I know Mrs. Sharp will be more in 
love with you than ever when she sees you in the new one.” 

“ My complexion, ye little roogue ! ye’re a laughin’ at me. 
But talkin’ o’ complexions, what a beautiful color the bride 
as is to be has on her cheeks ! Dang my boottons ! she looks 
laine and handsome o’ hossback — sits as upraight as a dart, 
wi’ a figure like a statty ! Misthress Sharp has promised to 
put me behaind one o’ the doors when the ladies are cornin’ 
doon to dinner, so as I may sae the young un i’ full dress, wi’ 
all her curls an’ that. Mistress Sharp says she’s almost beau- 
tifuller nor my ledy was when she was yoong ; an’ I think 
ye’ll noot faind many i’ the counthry as’ll coom up to that.” 

“ Yes, Miss Assher is very handsome,” said Caterina, 
rather faintly, feeling the sense of her own insignificance re- 
turning at this picture of the impression Miss Assher made 
on others. 

“ Well, an’ I hope she’s good too, an’ll mek a good naice 
to Sir Cristhifer an’ my ledy. Misthress Griffin, the maid, 
says as she’s rether tatchy and find-fautin’ aboot her cloothes 
laike. But she’s yoong — she’s yoong ; that’ll wear off when 
she’s got a hoosband, an’ children, an’ summat else to think 
on. Sir Cristhifer’s fain an’ delaighted, I can see. He says 
to me th’other mornin,’ says he, ‘ Well Bates, what do you 
think of your young misthress as is to be ? ’ An’ I says, 
‘ Whay, yer honor, I think she’s as fain a lass as iver I set 
eyes on ; an’ I wish the Captain luck in a fain family, an* 
your honor laife an’ health to see’t ’ Mr. Warren says as the 


MR, GILFIDS LOVE-STORY, 


133 

masther’s all for forrardin’ the weddin,’ an’ it’ll very laike be 
afore the autumn’s oot.” 

As Mr. Bates ran on, Caterina felt something like a pain- 
ful contraction at her heart. “Yes,” she said rising, “ 1 dare 
say it will. Sir Christopher is very anxious for it. But I 
must go, uncle Bates ; Lady Cheverel will be wanting me, 
and it is your dinner-time.” 

“ Nay, my dinner doon’t sinnify a bit ; but I moosn’t kaep 
ye if my ledy wants ye. Though I hevn’t thanked ye half 
anoof for the comfiter — the wrapraskil, as they call’t. My 
feckins, it s a beauty. But ye look very whaite and sadly. 
Miss Tiny ; I doubt ye’re poorly ; an’ this walking i’ th’ wet 
isn’t good for ye.” 

“ Oh, yes, it is indeed,” said Caterina, hastening out, and 
taking up her umbrella from the kitchen floor. “ I must really 
go now \ so, good-by.” 

She tripped off, calling Rupert, while the good gardener, 
his hands thrust deep in his pockets, stood looking after her, 
and shaking his head with rather a melancholy air. 

“ She gets moor nesh and dillicat than iver,” he said, 
half to himself and half to Hester. “ I shouldn’t woonder if 
she fades away laike them cyclamens as I transplanted. She 
puts me i’ maind on ’em somehow, hangin’ on their little thin 
stalks, so whaite an’ tinder.” 

The poor little thing made her way back, no longer hun- 
gering for the cold moist air as a counteractive of inward ex- 
citement, but with a chill at her heart which made the out- 
ward chill only depressing. The golden sunlight beamed 
through the dripping boughs like a Shechinah, or visible di- 
vine presence, and the birds were chirping and trilling their 
new autumnal songs so sweetly, it seemed as if their throats, 
as well as the air, were all the clearer for the rain ; but 
Caterina moved through all this joy and beauty like a poor 
wounded leveret painfully dragging its little body through the 
sweet clover-tufts — for it, sweet in vain. Mr. Bates’s words 
about Sir Christopher’s joy. Miss Assher’s beauty, and the 
nearness of the wedding, had come upon her like the pres- 
sure of a cold hand, rousing her from confused dozing to a 
perception of hard, familiar realities. It is so with emotional 
natures, whose thoughts are no more than the fleeting 
shadows cast by feeling : to them words are facts, and even 
when known to be false, have a mastery over their smiles 
and tears. Caterina entered her own room again, with no 
other change from her former state of despondency and 


134 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


wretchedness than an additional sense of injury from An- 
thony. His behavior towards her in the morning was a new 
wrong. To snatch a caress when she justly claimed an ex- 
pression of penitence, of regret, of sympathy, was to make 
more light of her than ever. 


CHAPTER VIII. . 

That evening Miss Assher seemed to tarry herself with 
unusual haughtiness, and was coldly observant of Caterina. 
There was unmistakably thunder in the air. Captain Wy- 
brow appeared to take the matter very easily, and was in- 
clined to brave it out by paying more than ordinary attention 
to Caterina. Mr. Gilfil had induced her to play a game at 
draughts with him, Lady Assher being seated at picquet with 
Sir Christopher, and Miss Assher in determined conversation 
with Lady Cheverel. Anthony, thus left as an odd unit, 
sauntered up to Caterina’s chair, and leaned behind her, 
watching the game. Tina, with all the remembrances of the 
morning thick upon her, felt her cheeks becoming more and 
more crimson, and at last said impatiently, “ I wish you 
would go away.” 

This happened directly under the view of Miss Assher, 
who saw Caterina’s reddening cheeks, saw that she said some- 
thing impatiently, and that Captain Wybrow moved away in 
consequence. There was another person, too, who had 
noticed this incident with strong interest, and who was more- 
over aware that Miss Assher not only saw, but keenly ob- 
served what was passing. That other person was Mr. Gilfil, 
and he drew some painful conclusions which heightened his 
anxiety for Caterina. 

The next morning, in spite of the fine w'eather. Miss 
Assher declined riding, and Lady Cheverel, perceiving that 
there was something wrong between the lovers, took care that 
they should be left together in the drawing-room. Miss 
Assher, seated on a sofa near the fire, was busy with some 
fancy work, in which she seemed bent on making great 
progress this morning. Captain Wybrow sat opposite with a 
newspaper in his hand, from which he obligingly read extracts 
with an elaborately easy air, wilfully unconi^ious of the con- 


MR. GILFinS LOVE-STORY. 


135 

temptuous silence with which she pursued her filigree work. 
At length he put down the paper, which he could no longer 
pretend not to have exhausted, and Miss Assher then said, 

“ You seem to be on very intimate terms with Miss Sarti.’^ 

“ With Tina ? oh yes ; she has always been the pet of the 
house, you know. We have been quite brother and sister 
together.” 

“ Sisters don’t generally color so very deeply when their 
brothers approach them.” 

“ Does she color? I never noticed it. But she’s a timid 
little thing.” 

“ It would be much better if you would not be so hypo- 
critical, Captain Wybrow. I am confident there has been 
some flirtation between you. Miss Sarti, in her position, 
would never speak to you with the petulance she did last night 
if you had not given her some kind of claim on you.” 

“ My dear Beatrice, now do be reasonable ; do ask your- 
self what earthly probability there is that I should think of 
flirting with poor little Tina. Is there anything about her 
to attract that sort of attention ? She is more child than 
woman. One thinks of her as a little girl to be petted and 
played with.” 

“Pray, what were you playing at with her yesterday morn- 
ing, when I came in unexpectedly, and her cheeks were flushed 
and her hands trembling ? ” 

“Yesterday morning? — Oh, I remember. You know I 
always tease her about Gilfil, who is over head and ears in 
love with her ; and she is angry at that, — perhaps, because 
she likes him. They were old play-fellows years before I 
came here, and Sir Christopher has set his heart on their 
marrying.” 

“ Captain Wybrow, you are very false. It had nothing to 
do with Mr. Gilfil that she colored last night when you leaned 
over her chair. You might just as well be candid. If your 
own mind is not made up, pray do no violence to yourself. I 
am quite ready to give way to Miss Sarti’s superior attractions. 
Understand that, so far as I am concerned, you are perfectly 
at liberty. I decline any share in the affection of a man who 
forfeits my respect by duplicity.” 

In saying this Miss Assher rose, and was sweeping 
haughtily out of the room, when Captain Wybrow placed him- 
self before her, and took her hand. 

“Dear, dear Beatrice, be patient ; do not judge me so 
rashly. Sit down again, sweet,” he added in a pleading 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


136 

voice, pressing both her hands between his, and leading her 
back to the sofa, where he sat down beside her. Miss Assher 
was not unwilling to be led back or to listen, but she retained 
her cold and haughty expression. 

“ Can you not trust me, Beatrice ? Can you not believe 
me, although there may be things I am unable to explain ? ” 

“ Why should there be anything you are unable to explain ? 
An honorable man will not be placed in circumstances which 
he cannot explain to the woman he seeks to make his wife. 
He v^ill not ask her to believe that he acts properly ; he will 
let her know that he does so. Let me go, sir.” 

She attempted to rise, but he passed his hand round her 
waist and detained her. 

“ Now, Beatrice, dear,” he said imploringly, “can you not 
understand that there are things a man doesn’t like to talk 
about — secrets that he must keep for the sake of others, and 
not for his own sake ? Everything that relates to myself you 
may ask me, but do not ask me to tell other people’s secrets. 
Don’t you understand me ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Miss Assher scornfully, “ I understand. 
Whenever you make love to a woman — that is her secret, 
which you are bound to keep for her. But it is folly to be 
talking in this way. Captain Wybrow. It is very plain that 
there is some relation more than frie’ndship between you and 
Miss Sard. Since you cannot explain that relation, there is 
no more to be said between us.” 

“ Confound it, Beatrice ! you’ll drive me mad. Can a fel- 
low help a girl’s falling in love with him ? Such things are 
always happening, but a man don’t talk of them. These fan- 
cies will spring up .without the slightest foundation, especially 
when a woman sees few people ; they die out again when 
there is no encouragement. If you could like me, you ought 
rot to be surprised that other people can ; you ought to think 
the better of them for it.” 

“ You mean to say, then, that Miss Sarti is in love with you 
without your ever having made love to her.” 

“ Do not press me to say such things, dearest. It is 
enough that you know I love you — that I am devoted to you. 
You naughty queen you, you know' there is no chance for any 
one else w'here you are. You are only tormenting me, to 
prove your power over me. But don't be too cruel ; for you 
know they say I have another heart-disease besides love, and 
these scenes bring on terrible palpitations.” 

“ But I must have an answer to this one question,” said 


MR. GILFI US LOVE-STORY. 


137 

Miss Assher, a little softened : “ Has there been, or is there, 
any love on your side towards Miss Sarti ? I have nothing 
to do with her feelings, but I have a right to know yours.” 

“ I like Tina ver)^ much ; who would not like such a little 
simple thing ? You would not wish me not to like her? But 
love — that is a very different affair. One has a brotherly 
affection for such a woman as Tina ; but it is another sort 
of woman that one loves.” 

These last words were made doubly significant by a look 
of tenderness, and a kiss imprinted on the hand Captain 
VVybrow held in his. Miss Assher was conquered. It was 
so far from probable that Anthony should love that pale insig- 
nificant little thing — so highly probable that he should adore 
the beautiful Miss Assher. On the whole, it was rather grati- 
fying that other women should be languishing for her hand- 
some lover ; he really was an exquisite creature. Poor Miss 
Sarti ! Well, she would get over it. 

Captain Wybrow say his advantage. “ Come, sweet love,” 
he continued, “ let us talk no more about unpleasant things. 
You will keep Tina’s secret, and be very kind to her — won’t 
you ? — for my sake. But you will ride out now ? See what 
a glorious day it is for riding. Let me order the horses. 
I’m terribly in want of the air. Come, give me one forgiving 
kiss, and say you will go.” 

Miss Assher complied with the double request, and then 
went to equip herself for the ride, while her lover walked to 
the stables. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Meanwhile Mr. Gilfil, who had a heavy weight on his 
mind, had watched for the moment when, the two elder ladies 
having driven out, Caterina would probably be alone in Lady 
Cheverel’s sitting-room. He went up and knocked at the 
door. 

“ Come in,” said the sweet mellow voice, always thrilling 
to him as a sound of rippling water to the thirsty. 

He entered and found Caterina standing in some confu- 
sion, as if she had been startled from a reverie. She felt re- 
lieved when she saw it was Maynard, but, the next moment, 


SCEA'HS OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


I3S 

felt a little pettish that he should have come to interrupt and 
frighten her. 

“ Oh, it is you, Maynard > Do you want Lady Cheverel } ” 
“ No, Caterina,” he answered gravely ; “ I want you. I 
have something very particular to say to you. Will you let 
me sit down with you for half an hour ? ” 

“ Yes, dear old preacher,” said Caterina, sitting down 
with an air of weariness ; “ what is it } ” 

Mr, Gilfil placed himself opposite to her, and said, I hope 
you will not be hurt, Caterina, by what I am going to say to 
you. I do not speak from any other feelings than real affec- 
tion and anxiety for you. I put everything else out of the 
question. You know you are more to me than all the world ; 
but I will not thrust before you a feeling which you are unable 
to return. I speak to you as a brother — the old Maynard 
that used to scold you for getting your fishing-line tangled 
ten years ago. You will not believe that I have any mean, 
selfish motive in mentioning things that are painful to you ? ” 
“ No ; I know you are very good,” said Caterina, ab- 
stractedly. 

“ From what I saw yesterday evening,” Mr. Gilfil went 
on, hesitating and coloring slightly, “ I am led to fear — pray 
forgive me if I am wrong, Caterina — that you — that Captain 
Wybrow is base enough still to trifle with your feelings, that 
he still allows himself to behave to you as no man ought who 
is the declared lover of another woman.” 

“ What do you mean, Maynard ? ” said Caterina, with 
anger flashing from her eyes. “ Do you mean that I let him 
make love to me ? What right have you to think that of me ? 
What do you mean that you saw yesterday evening > ” 

^ “ Do not be angry, Caterina, I don’t suspect you of 
doing wrong. I only suspect that heartless puppy of behav- 
ing so as to keep awake feelings in you that not only destroy 
your own peace of mind, but may lead to very bad conse- 
quences with regard to others. I want to warn you that Miss 
Assher has her eyes open on what passes between you and 
Captain ^Vybrow, and I feel sure she is getting jealous of you. 
Pray be very careful, Caterina, and try to behave with polite- 
ness and indifference to him. You must see by this time that 
he is not worth the feelings you have given him. He’s more 
disturbed at his pulse beating one too many in a minute, than 
at all the misery he has caused you by his foolish trifling.” 

“ You ought not to speak so of him, Maynard,”'^*said 
Catarina, passionately. “ He is not what you think. He 


' MR. GILFWS LOVE-STORY. 


139 

care for me ; he dzd love me ; only he wanted to do what his 
uncle wished.” 

“ Oh, to be sure ! I know it is only from the most vir- 
tuous motives that he does what is convenient to himself.” 

Mr. Gilfil paused. He felt that he was getting irritated, 
and defeating his own object. Presently he continued in a 
calm and affectionate tone : 

“ I will say no more about what I think of him, Caterina. 
But whether he loved you or not, his position now wdth Miss 
Assher is such that any love you may cherish for him can 
bring nothing but misery. God knows, I don’t expect you to 
leave off loving him at a moment’s notice. Time and absence, 
and trying to do what is right, are the only cures. If it were 
not that Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel would be dis- 
pleased and puzzled at your wishing to leave home just now, I 
would beg you to pay a visit to my sister. She and her hus- 
band are good creatures, and would make their house a home 
to you. But I could not urge the thing just now without giv^- 
ing a special reason ; and what is most of all to be dreaded is 
the raising of any suspicion in Sir Christopher’s mind of what 
has happened in the past, or of your present feelings. You 
think so too, don’t 3"ou, Tina ? ” 

Mr. Gilfil paused again, but Caterina said nothing. She 
was looking away from him, out of the window, and her eyes 
were filling with tears. He rose, and, advancing a little 
towards her, held out his hand, and said, 

“ Forgive me, Caterina, for intruding on your filings in 
this way. I was so afraid 3'ou might not be aware ^ow Miss 
Assher watched you. Remember, I entreat you, that the 
peace of the whole family depends on your power of governing 
yourself. Only say you forgive me before I go.” 

“ Dear, good Maynard,” she said, stretching out her little 
hand, and taking two of his large fingers in her grasp, while 
her tears flowed fast ; “ I am very cross to you. But my heart 
is breaking. I don’t know what I do. Good-by.” 

He stooped down, kissed the little hand, and then left the 
room. 

“ The cursed scoundrel ! ” he muttered between his teeth, 
as he closed the door behind him. “ If it were not for Sir 
Christopher, I should like to pound him into paste to poison 
puppies like himself.” 


140 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LJFE» 


CHAPTER X. 

That evening Captain Wybrow, returning from a long ride 
with Miss Assher, went up to his dressing-room, and seated 
himself with an air of considerable lassitude before his mirror. 
The reflection there presented of his exquisite self was cer- 
tainly paler and more worn than usual, and might excuse the 
anxiety with which he first felt his pulse and then laid his hand 
on his heart; 

“ It’s a devil of a position this for a man to be in, was 
the train of his thought, as he kept his eyes fixed on the 
glass, while he leaned back in his chair, and crossed his hands 
behind his head ; “ between two jealous women, and both of 
them as ready to take fire as tinder. And in my state of 
health, too I I should be glad enough to run away from the 
whole affair, and go off to some lotos-eating place or other 
where there are no women, or only women who are too sleepy 
to be jealous. Here am I, doing nothing to please myself, 
trying to do- the best thing for everybody else, and all the 
comfort 1 get is to have fire shot at me from women’s eyes, 
and venom spirted at me from women’s tongues. If Beatrice 
takes another jealous fit into her head — and it’s likely enough, 
Tina is so unmanageable — I don’t know what storm she may 
raise. And any hitch in this marriage, especially of that - 
sort, ini^t be a fatal business for the old gentleman. I 
wouldn’r^iave such a blow fall upon him for a great deal. 
Besides, a man must be married some time in his life, and I 
could hardly do better than marry Beatrice. She’s an uncom- 
monly fine woman, and I’m really very fond of her ; and as I 
shall let her have her own way her temper won’t signify much. 

I wish the wedding was over and done with, for this fuss 
doesn’t suit me at all. I haven’t been half so well lately. 
That scene about Tina this morning quite upset me. Poor 
little Tina ! What a little simpleton it was to set her heart 
on me in that way ! But she ought to see how impossible it 
is that things should be different. If she would but under- 
stand how kindly I feel towards her, and make up her mind 
to look on me as a friend ; but that is what one never can get 
a woman to do. Beatrice is very good-natured ; I’m sure she 
would be kind to the little thing. It would be a great comfort 
if Tina would take to Gilfil, if it were only in anger against 
me. He’d make her a capital husband, and I should like to 


MR. GILFinS LOVE-STORY, 


14I 

see the little grasshopper happy. If I had been in a different 
position I would certainly have married her myself ; but that 
was out of the question with my responsibilities to Sir Chris- 
topher. I think, a little persuasion from my uncle would 
bring her to accept Gilfil ; 1 know she would never be able 
to oppose my uncle’s wishes. And if they were onc6 married 
she’s such a loving. little thing, she would soon be billing and 
cooing with him as if she had never known me. It would 
certainly be the best thing for her happiness if that marriage 
were hastened. Heigho ! Those are lucky fellows that have 
no women falling in love with them. It’s a confounded 
responsibility.” 

At this point in his meditations he turned his head a little, 
so as to get a three-quarter view of his face. Clearly it was 
the “ dono infelice della bellezza ” that laid these onerous 
duties upon him — an idea which naturally suggested that he 
should ring for his valet. 

For the next few days, however, there was such a cessation 
of threatening symptoms as to allay the anxiety both of Cap- 
tain Wybrow and Mr. Gilfil. All earthly things have their 
lull : even on nights when the most unappeasable wind is 
raging, there will be a moment of stillness before it crashes 
among the boughs again, and storms against the windows, and 
howls like a thousand lost demons through the key-holes. 

Miss Assher appeared to be in the highest good-humor \ 
Captain Wybrow was more assiduous than usual, and was 
very circumspect in his behavior to Caterina, on whom Miss 
Assher bestowed unwonted attentions. The weather was 
brilliant ; there were riding excursions in the mornings and 
dinner-parties in the evenings. Consultations in the library 
between Sir Christopher and Lady Assher seemed to be lead- 
ing to a satisfactory result ; and it was understood that this 
visit at Cheverel Manor would terminate in another fortnight, 
when the preparations for the wedding would be carried for- 
ward with all dispatch at Farleigh. The Baronet seemed 
every day more radiant. Accustomed to view people who 
entered into his plans by the pleasant light which his own 
strong will and bright hopefulness were always casting on 
the future, he saw nothing but personal charms and promising 
domestic qualities in Miss Assher, whose quickness of eye and 
taste in externals formed a real ground of sympathy between 
her and Sir Christopher. Lady Cheverel’s enthusiasm never 
rose above the temperate mark of calm satisfaction, and, hav- 
ing quite her share of the critical acumen which characterizes 


142 


SCENES OF CLEFICAL LIE^E, 


the mutual estimates of the fair sex, she had a more moderate 
opinion of Miss Assher’s qualities. She suspected that the 
fair Beatrice had a sharp and imperious temper ; and being 
herself, on principle and by habitual self-command, the most 
deferental of wives, she noticed with disapproval Miss As- 
sher’s occasional air of authority towards Captain Wybrow. 
A proud woman who has learned to submit, carries all her 
pride to the reinforcement of her submission, and looks down 
with severe superiority on all feminine assumption as “unbe- 
coming.” Lady Cheverel, however, confined her criticisms to 
the privacy of her own thoughts, and, with a reticence which 
I fear may seem incredible, did not use them as a means of 
disturbing her husband’s complacency. 

And Caterina ? How did she pass these sunny autumn 
days, in which the skies seemed to be smiling on the family 
gladness ? To her the change in Miss Assher’s manner was 
unaccountable. 1 hose compassionate attentions, those smiling 
condescensions, were torture to Caterina, who was constantly 
tempted to repulse them with anger. She thought, “Perhaps 
Anthony has told her to be kind to poor Tina.” This was an 
insult. He ought to have known that the mere presence of 
Miss Assher was painful to her, that Miss Assher’s smiles 
scorched her, that Miss Assher’s kind w^ords w'ere like poison- 
stings inflaming her to madness. And he — Anthony — he was 
evidently repenting of the tenderness he had been betrayed 
into that morning in the drawing-room. He w'as cold and 
distant and civil to her, to ward off Beatrice’s suspicions, and 
Beatrice could be so gracious now, because she w'as sure of 
Anthony’s entire devotion. Well ! and so it ought to be — an^ 
she ought not to wish it otherwise. And yet — oh, he was 
cruel to her. She could never have behaved so to him. To 
make her love him so — to speak such tender words — to give 
her such caresses, and then to behave as if such things had 
never been. He had given her the poison that seemed so 
sweet while she was drinking it, and now it w'as in her blood, 
and she was helpless. 

With this tempest pent up in her bosom, the poor child 
w^ent up to her room every night, and there it all burst forth. 
There, with loud whispers and sobs, restlessly pacing up and 
down, lying on the hard floor, courting cold and weariness, 
she told to the pitiful listening night the anguish which she 
could pour into no mortal ear. But always sleep came at last, 
and always in the morning the reactive calm that enabled 
her to live through the day. 


MR. GILFWS L O VE-STOR Y. 


143 


It is amazing how long a young frame will go on battling 
with this sort of secret wretchedness, and yet show no traces 
of the conflict for any but S}unpathetic eyes. The very del- 
icacy of Caterina’s usual appearance, her natural paleness and 
habitually quiet mouse-like ways, made any symptoms of fa- 
tigue and suffering less noticeable. And her singing — the 
one thing in which she ceased to be passive, and became 
prominent — lost none of its energy. She herself sometimes 
wondered how it was that, whether she felt sad or angry, 
crushed with the sense of Anthony’s indifference, or burning 
with impatience under Miss Assher’s attentions, it was always 
a relief to her to sing. Those full deep notes she sent forth 
seemed to be lifting the pain from her heart — seemed to be 
carring away the madness from her brain. 

Thus Lady Cheverel noticed no change in Caterina, and 
it was only Mr. Gilfil who discerned with anxiety the feverish 
spot that sometimes rose on her cheek, the deepening violet 
tint under her eyes, and the strange absent glance, the un- 
healthy glitter of the beautiful eyes themselves. 

But those agitated nights were producing a more fatal ef- 
fect than was represented by these slight outward changes. 


CHAPTER XI. 

The following Sunday, the morning being rainy, it was de- 
termined that the family should not go to Cumbermoor 
Church as usual, but that Mr. Gilfil, who had only an after- 
noon service at his curacy, should conduct the morning ser- 
vice in the chapel. 

Just before the appointed hour of eleven, Caterina came 
down into the drawing-room, looking so unusually ill as to 
call forth an anxious inquiry from Lady Cheverel, who, on 
learning that she had a severe headache, insisted that she 
should not attend service, and at once packed her up com- 
fortably on a sofa near the fire, putting a volume of Tillot- 
son’s Sermons into her hands — as appropriate reading, if 
Caterina should feel equal to that means of edification. 

Excellent medicine for the mind are the good Archbish- 
op’s sermons, but a medicine, unhappily, not suited to Tina’s 
case. She sat with the book open on her knees, her dark 


144 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


eyes fixed vacantly on the portrait of that handsome Lady 
Cheverel, wife of the notable Sir Anthony. She gazed at the 
picture without thinking of it, and the fair blonde dame 
seemed to look down on her with that benignant unconcern, 
that mild wonder, with which happy self-possessed women are 
apt to look down on their agitated and weaker sisters. 

Caterina was thinking of the near future — of the wedding 
that was soon to come — of all she would have to live through 
in the next months. 

“ I wish I could be very ill, and die before then,” she 
thought. “ When people get very ill, they don’t mind about 
things. Poor Patty Richards looked so happy when she was 
in a decline. She didn’t seem to care any more about her lover 
that she was engaged to be married to, and she liked the smell 
of the flowers so, that I used to take her. Oh, if I could but 
like anything — if I could but think about anything else ! If 
these dreadful feelings would go away, I wouldn’t mind about 
not being happy. I wouldn’t want anything — and I could 
do what would please Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel. 
But when that rage and anger comes into me, I don’t know 
what to do. I don’t feel the ground under me ; I only feel 
my head and heart beating, and it seems as if T must do 
something dreadful. Oh ! I wonder if any one ever felt like 
me before. I must be very wicked. But God will have pity 
on me ; He knows all I have to bear.” 

^ In this way the time wore on till Tina heard the sound of 
voices along the passage, and became conscious that the vol- 
ume of Tillotson had slipped on the floor. She had only just 
picked it up, and seen with alarm that the pages were bent, 
when Lady Assher, Beatrice, and Captain Wybrow entered, 
all with that brisk and cheerful air which a sermon is often 
observed to produce when it is quite finished. 

Lady Assher at once came and seated herself by Cate- 
rina. Her ladyship had been considerably refreshed by a 
doze, and was in great force for monologue. 

“ Well, my dear Miss Sarti, and how do you feel now ? — a 
little better, I see. I thought you would be, sitting quietly 
here. These headaches, now, are all from weakness. You 
must not over exert yourself, and you must take bitters. I 
used to have just the same sort of headaches when I was your 
age, and old Dr. Samson used to .say to my mother, ‘Madam, 
what your daughter suffers from is weakness.’ He was such 
a curious old man, was Dr. Samson. But I wish you could 
have heard the sermon this morning. Such an excellent ser- 


MJ?. GILFins LOVES TORY. 


145 

mon ! It was about the ten virgins : five of them were fool- 
ish, and five were clever, you know ; and Mr. Gilfil explained 
all that. What a very pleasant young man he is > so very 
quiet and agreeable, and such a good hand at whist. 1 
wish we had him at Farleigh. Sir John would have liked 
him beyond anything ; he is so good-tempered at cards, and 
he was such a man for cards, was Sir John. And our rector 
IS a very irritable man ; he can’t bear to lose his money at 
cards. I don’t think a clergyman ought to mind about losing 
Ins money ; do you ?— do you, now ? ” 

Oh pray. Lady Assher,” interposed Beatrice, in her usual 
tone of superiority, “ do not weary poor Caterina with such 
uninteresting questions. Your head seems very bad, still, 
dear,” she continued in a condoling tone, to Caterina; “ do 
take my vinaigrette, and keep it in your pocket. It will per- 
haps refresh you now and then.” 

“ No, thank you,” answered Caterina ; “ I will not take it 
away from you.” 

“ Indeed, dear, I never use it ; you must take it,” Miss 
Assher persisted, holding it close to Tina’s hand. Tina 
colored deeply, pushed the vinaigrette away with some impa- 
tience, and said, “ Thank you, I never use those things. I 
don’t like vinaigrettes.” 

Miss Assher returned the vinaigrette to her pocket in sur- 
prise and haughty silence, and Captain Wybrow, who had 
looked on in some alarm, said hastily, “ See 1 it is quite bright 
out of doors now. There is time for a walk before luncheon. 
Come, Beatrice, put on your hat and cloak, and let us have 
half an hour’s walk on the gravel.” 

“ Yes, do, my dear,” said Lady Assher, “and I will go 
and see if Sir Christopher is having his walk in the gallery.” 

As soon as the door had closed behind the two ladies. 
Captain Wybrow, standing with his back to the fire, turned 
toward Caterina, and said in a tone of earnest remonstrance, 
“ My dear Caterina, let me beg of you to exercise more con- 
trol over your feelings ; you are really rude to Miss Assher, 
and I can see that she is quite hurt. Consider how strange 
your behavior must appear to her. She will wonder what can 
be the cause of it. Come, dear Tina,” he added, approach- 
ing her, and attempting to take her hand ; “ for your own 
sake let me entreat you to receive her attentions politely. 
She really feels very kindly towards you, and I should be so 
happy to see you friends.” 

Caterina was already in such a state of diseased suscepii- 


146 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


bility that the most innocent words from Captain Wybrow 
would have been irritating to her, as the whirr of the most 
delicate wing will afflict a nervous patient. But this tone of 
benevolent remonstrance was intolerable. He had inflicted 
a great and unrepented injury on her, and now he assumed 
an air of benevolence towards her. This was a new outrage. 
His profession of good-will was insolence. 

Caterina snatched away her hand and said indignantly, 
“ Leave me to myself. Captain Wybrow ! I do not disturb 
you.” 

“ Caterina, why will you be so violent — so unjust to me ? 
It is for you that I feel anxious. Miss Assher has already 
noticed how strange your behavior is both to her and me, 
and it puts me into a very difficult position. What can I say 
to her ? ” 

“ Say ? ” Caterina burst forth with intense bitterness, ris- 
ing, and moving towards the door ; “ say that I am a poor 
silly girl, and have fallen in love with you, and am jealous of 
her ; but that you have never had any feeling but pity for me 
— you have never behaved with anything more than friend- 
liness to me. Tell her that, and she will think all the better 
of you.” 

Tina uttered this as the bitterest sarcasm her ideas would 
furnish her with, not having the faintest suspicion that the sar- 
casm derived any of its bitterness from truth. Underneath 
all her sense of wrong, which was rather instinctive than re- 
flective — underneath all the madness of her jealousy, and her 
ungovernable impulses of resentment and vindictiveness — 
underneath all this scorching passion there were still left 
some hidden crystal dews of trust, of self-reproof, of belief 
that Anthony was trying to do the right. Love had not all 
gone to feed the fires of hatred. Tina still trusted that 
Anthony felt more for her than he seemed to feel ; she was 
still far from suspecting him of a wrong which a woman re- 
sents even more than inconsistency. And she threw out this 
taunt simply as the most intense expression she could find 
for the anger of the moment. 

As she stood nearly in the middle of the room, her little 
body trembling under the shock of passions too strong for it, 
her very lips pale, and her eyes gleaming, the door opened, 
and Miss Assher appeared, tall, blooming, and splendid, in her 
walking costume. As she entered, her face wore the smile 
appropriate to the exits and entrances of a young lady who 
feels that her presence is an interesting fact ; but the next 


MR. GILFIVS LO VEST OR Y. 


147 

moment she looked at Caterina with grave surprise, and then 
threw a glance of angry suspicion at Captain Wybrow, who 
wore an air of weariness and vexation. 

“ Perhaps you are too much engaged to walk out, Captain 
Wybrow ? I will go alone.” 

“ No, no I am coming,” he answered, hurrying towards 
her, and leading her out of the room ; leaving poor Caterina 
to feel all the reaction of shame and self-reproach after her 
outburst of passion. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Pray, what is likely to be the next scene in the drama 
between you and Miss Sarti ? ” said Miss Assher to Captain 
Wybrow as soon as they were out on the gravel. “ It would 
be agreeable to have some idea of what is coming.” 

Captain Wybrow was silent. He felt out of humor, wea- 
ried, annoyed. There come moments when one almost deter- 
mines never again to oppose anything but dead silence to an 
angry woman. “Now then, confound it,” he said to himself, 
“ I’m going to be battered on the other flank.” He looked 
resolutely at the horizon, with something more like a frown 
on his face than Beatrice had ever seen there. 

After a pause of two or three minutes, she continued in a 
still haughtier tone, “ I suppose you are aware. Captain Wy- 
brow, that I expect an explanation of what I have just seen.” 

“ I have no explanation, my dear Beatrice,” he answered 
at last, making a strong effort over himself, “except what I 
have already given you. I hoped you would never recur to 
the subject.” 

“ Your explanation, however, is very far from satisfactory. 
I can only say that the airs Miss Sarti thinks herself entitled 
to put on towards you, are quite incompatible with your 
position as regards me. And her behavior to me is most in- 
sulting. I shall certainly not stay in the house under such 
circumstances, and mamma must state the reasons to Sir 
Christopher.” 

“Beatrice,” said Captain Wybrow, his irritation giving 
way to alarm, “ I beseech you to be patient, and exercise 5^our 
good feelings in this affair. It is very painful, I know, but I 
am sure vou would be grieved to injure poor Caterina — to 


SCEA^ES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


148 

bring down my uncle’s anger upon her. Consider what a 
poor little dependent thing she is.” 

“ It is very adroit of you to make these evasions, but do 
not suppose that they deceive me. Miss Sarti would never 
dare to behave to you as she does, if you had not flirted with 
her, or made love to her. I suppose she considers your en- 
gagement to me a breach of faith to her. I am much obliged 
to you, certainly, for making me Miss Sard’s rival. You have 
told me a falsehood. Captain VVybrow.” 

‘‘ Beatrice, I solemnly declare to you that Caterina is 
nothing more to me than a girl I naturally feel kindly to — as 
a favorite of my uncle’s and a nice little thing enough. I 
should be glad to see her married to Gilfil to-morrow ; that’s 
a good proof that I’m not in love with her, I should think. 
As to the past, I may have shown her little attentions, which 
she has exaggerated and misinterpreted. What man is not 
liable to that sort of thing ? ” 

“ But what can she found her behavior on ? What had 
she been saying to you this morning to make her tremble and 
turn pale in that way?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I just said something about her be- 
having peevishly. With that Italian blood of hers, there’s no 
knowing how she may take what one says. She’s a fierce 
little thing, though she seems so quiet generally.” 

“ But she ought to be made to know how unbecoming and 
indelicate her conduct is. For my part, I wonder Lady Chev- 
erel has not noticed her short answers and the airs she puts 
on.” 

“ Let me beg of you, Beatrice, not to hint anything of the 
kind to Lady Cheverel. You must have observed how strict 
my aunt is. It never enters her head that a girl can be in 
love with a man who has not made her an offer.” 

“ Well, I shall let Miss Sarti know myself that I have ob- 
served her conduct. It will be only a charity to her.” 

“Nay, dear, that will be doing nothing but harm. Cate- 
rina’s temper is peculiar. The best thing you can do will be 
to leave her to herself as much as possible. It will all wear 
off. I’ve no doubt she’ll be married to Gilfil before long. 
Girls’ fancies are easily diverted from one object to another. 
By jove, what a rate my heart is galloping at ! These con- 
founded palpitations get worse instead of better.” 

Thus ended the conversation, so far as it concerned Cate- 
rina, not without leaving a distinct resolution in Captain 
Wybrow’s mind — a resolution carried into effect the next day 


M/^. G ILFWS L O VE-S TOR Y. 


149 


ivhen he was in the library with Sir Christopher for the pur> 
pose of discussing some arrangements about the api^roaching 
marriage. 

“ By the by,” he said carelessly, when the business came 
to a pause, and he was sauntering round the room with his 
hands in his coat-pockets, surveying the backs of the books 
that lined the walls, “ when is the wedding between Gilfil 
and Caterina to come off, sir ? I’ve ^ fellow-feeling for a 
poor devil so many fathoms deep in love as Maynard. Why 
shouldn’t their marriage happen as soon as ours t I suppose 
he has come to an understanding with Tina ? ” 

“ Why,” said Sir Christopher, “ I did think of letting the 
thing be until old Crichley died ; he can’t hold out very long, 
poor fellow : and then Maynard might have entered into 
matrimony and the rectory both at once. But, after all, that 
really is no good reason for waiting. There is no need for 
them to leave the Manor when *hey are married. The little 
monkey is quite old enough. It would be pretty to see her 
a m.atron with a baby about the size of a kitten in her arms.” 

“ I think that system of waiting is always bad. And if I 
can further any settlement you w^ould like to make on Cate- 
rina, I shall be delighted to carry out your wishes.” 

“ My dear boy, that’s very good of you ; but Maynard 
will have enough ; and from what I know' of him — and I know 
him well — I think he would rather provide for Caterina him- 
self. However, now you have put this matter into my head, 
I begin to blame myself for not having thought of it before. 
I’ve been so wrapt up in Beatrice and you, you rascal, that I 
had really forgotten poor Maynard. And he’s older than 
you — it’s high time he was settled in life as a family man.” 

Sir Christopher paused, took snuff in a meditative man- 
ner, and presently said, more to himself than to Anthony, 
who was humming a tune at the far end of the room, “ Yes, 
yes. It will be a capital plan to finish off all our family busi- 
ness at once.” 

Riding out with Miss Assher the same morning, Captain 
Wybrow mentioned to her, incidentally, that Sir Christopher 
was anxious to bring about the wedding between Gilfil and 
Caterina as soon as possible, and that he, for his part, should 
do all he could to further the affair. It would be the best 
thing in the world for Tina, in whose welfare he was really 
interested. 

With Sir Christopher there was never any long interval 
beiweeu purpose and execution. He made up his mind 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


150 

promptly, and he acted promptly. On rising from luncheon, 
he said to Mr. Gilfil, “ Come with me into the library, May, 
nard. I want to have a word with you.” 

“ Maynard, my boy,” he began, as soon as they were seat- 
ed, tapping his snuff box, and looking radiant at the idea of 
the unexpected pleasure he was about to give, “ why shouldn’t 
we have two happy couples instead of one, before the au- 
tumn is over, eh ? ” ^ 

“ Eh ? ” he repeated, after a moment’s pause, lengthening 
out the monosyllable, taking a slow pinch, and looking up at 
Maynard with a sly smile. 

“ I’m not quite sure that I understand you, sir,” answered 
Mr. Gilfil, who felt annoyed at the consciousness that he W'as 
turning pale. 

“ Not understand me, you rogue ? You know very well 
whose happiness lies nearest to my heart after Anthony’s. 
You know you let me into your secrets long ago, so there’s 
no confession to make. Tina’s quite old enough to be a 
grave little wife now' ; and though the Rectory’s not ready 
for you that’s no matter. My lady and I shall feel all the 
more comfortable for having you with us. We should miss 
our little singing-bird if we lost her all at once.” 

Mr. Gilfil felt himself in a painfully difficult position- He 
dreaded that Sir Christopher should surmise or discover the 
true state of Caterina’s feelings, and yet he was obliged to 
make those feelings the ground of his repl}'. 

“ My dear sir,” he at last said with some effort, “you will 
not suppose that I am not alive to your goodness — that I am 
not grateful for your fatherly interest in my happiness ; but 
I fear that Caterina’s feelings towards me are not such as 
warrant the hope that she would accept a proposal of mar- 
riage from m.e.” 

“ Have you ever asked her ? ” 

“ No, sir. But we often know these things too well with- 
out asking.” 

“ Pooh, pooh ! the little monkey 7nust love you. Why, 
you were her first playfellow ; and I remember she used to 
cry if you cut your finger. Besides, she has always silently 
admitted that you were her lover. You know I have always 
spoken of you to her in that light. I took it for granted you 
had settled the business between yourselves ; so did An- 
thony. Anthony thinks she’s in love with you, and he has 
young eyes, which are apt enough to see clearly in these 
matters. He was talking to me about it this morning, and 


MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY. 


pleased me very much by the friendly interest he showed in 
you and Tina.” 

The blood — more than was wanted — rushed back to Mr. 
Gilfil’s face ; he set his teeth and clinched his hands in the 
effort to repress a burst of indignation. Sir Christopher no- 
ticed the flush, but thought it indicated the fluctuation of 
hope and fear about Caterina. He went on : 

“ You’re too modest by half, Maynard. A fellow who can 
take a five-barred gate as you can, ought not to be so faint- 
hearted. If you can’t .speak to her yourself, leave me to talk 
to her.” 

“ Sir Christopher,” said poor Maynard earnestly, “ I shall 
really feel it the greatest kindness you can possibly show me 
not to mention this subject to Caterina at present. I think 
such a proposal, made prematurely, might only alienate her 
from me.” 

Sir Christopher was getting a little displeased at this con- 
tradiction. His tone became a little sharper as he said, 
“ Have you any grounds to state for this opinion, beyond 
your general notion that Tina is not enough in love with 
you .? ” 

“ I can state none beyond my own very strong impression 
that she does not love me well enough to marry me.” 

“ Then I think that ground is worth nothing at all. I am 
tolerably correct in my judgment of people ; and if I am not 
very much deceived in Tina, she looks forward to nothing 
else but to your being her husband. Leave me to manage 
the matter as I think best. You may rely on me that I shall 
do no harm to your cause, Maynard.” 

Mr. Gilfil, afraid to say more, yet wretched in the pros- 
pect of what might result from Sir Christopher’s determina- 
tion, quitted the library in a state of mingled indignation 
ao-ainst Captain Wybrow, and distress for himself and Cate- 
rina. What would she think of him ? She might suppose 
that he had instigated or sanctioned Sir Christopher’s pro^ 
ceeding. He should perhaps not have an opportunity of 
speaking to her on the subject in time ; he would write her 
a note, and carry it up to her room after the dressing-bell 
had rung. No ; that would agitate her, and unfit her for ap^ 
pearing at dinner, and passing the evening calmly. He would 
defer it till bed-time. After prayers, he contrived to lead her 
back to the drawing room, and to put a letter in her hand. 
She carried it up to her own room, wondering, and there 
read — 


152 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


“ Dear Caterina, — Do not suspect for a moment that anything 
Sir Christopher may say to you about our marriage has been 
prompted by me. I have done all I dare do to dissuade him from 
urging the subject, and have only been prevented from speaking 
more strongly by the dread of provoking questions which I could 
not answer without causing you fresh misery. I write this both to 
prepare you for anything Sir Christopher may say, and to assure you 
— but I hope you already believe it — that your feelings are sacred 
to me. I would rather part with the dearest hope of my life than 
be the means of adding to your trouble. 

“ It is Captain Wybrow who has prompted Sir Christopher to 
take up the subject at this moment. I tell you this, to save you 
from hearing it suddenly when you are with Sir Christopher. You 
see now what sort of stuff that dastard’s heart is made of. Trust 
in me always, dearest Caterina, as — whatever may come — your 
faithful friend and brother, Maynard Gilfil.” 

Caterina was at first too terribly stung by the words about 
Captain Wybrow to think of the difficulty which threatened 
her — to think either of what Sir Christopher would say to her, 
or of what she could say in reply. Bitter sense of injury, 
fierce resentment, left no room for fear. With the poisoned 
garment upon him, the victim writhes under the J;orture — he 
has no thought of the coming death. 

Anthony could do this ! — Of this there could be no expla- 
nation but the coolest contempt for her feelings, the basest 
sacrifice of all the consideration and tenderness he owed her 
to the ease of his position with Miss Assher. No. It was 
worse than that : it was deliberate, gratuitous cruelty. He 
wanted to show her how he despised her ; he wanted to make 
her feel her folly in having ever believed that he loved her. 

The last crystal drops of trust and tenderness, she thought, 
were dried up ; all was parched, fiery hatred. Now she need 
no longer check her resentment by the fear of doing him an 
injustice : he had trifled with her, as Maynard had said ; he 
/z^Ybeen reckless of her; and now he was base and cruel. 
She had cause enough for her bitterness and anger ; they 
were not so wicked as they had seemed to her. 

As these thoughts were hurrying after each other like so 
many sharp throbs of fevered pain, she shed no tear. She 
paced restlessly to and fro, as her habit was — her hands 
clinched, her eyes gleaming fiercely and wandering uneasily, 
as if in search of something on which she might throw herself 
like a tigress. 

“ If I could speak to him,” she whispered, “ and tell him 
I hate him, I despise him, I loathe him ! ” 


MR. GILFIVS L O VE-S TOR Y. 


153 

Suddenly, as if a new thought had struck her, she drew a 
key from her pocket, and, unlocking an inlaid desk where she 
stored up her keepsakes, took from it a small miniature. It 
was in a very slight gold frame, with a ring to it, as if in- 
tended to be worn on a chain ; and under the glass at the 
back were two locks of hair, one dark and the other auburn, 
arranged in a fantastic knot. It was Anthony’s secret pres- 
ent to her a year ago — a copy he had had made specially for 
her. For the last month she had not taken it from its hiding- 
place : there was no need to heighten the vividness of the 
past. But now she clutched it fiercely, and dashed it across 
the room against the bare hearthstone. 

Will she crush it under her feet, and grind it under her 
high-heeled shoe, till every trace of those false, cruel features 
is gone ? 

Ah, no ! She rushed across the room ; but when she saw 
the little treasure she had cherished so fondly, so often 
smothered with kisses, so often laid under her pillow, and 
remembered with the first return of consciousness in the 
morning — when she saw this one visible relic of the too happy 
past lying with the glass shivered, the hair fallen out, the thin 
ivory cracked, there was a revulsion of the overstrained feel- 
ing : relenting came, and she burst into tears. 

Look at her stooping down to gather up her treasure, 
searching for the hair and replacing it, and then mournfully 
examining the crack that disfigures the once-loved image. 
There is no glass now to guard either the hair or the portrait ; 
but see how carefully she wraps delicate paper round it, and 
locks it up again in its old place. Poor child ! God send 
the relenting may always come before the worst irrevocable 
deed ! 

This action had quieted her, and she sat down to read 
Maynard’s letter again. She read it two or three times with- 
out seeming to take in the sense; her apprehension was dulled 
by the passion of the last hour, and she found it difficult to 
call up the ideas suggested by the words. At last she began 
to have a distinct conception of the impending interview with 
Sir Christopher. The idea of displeasing the Baronet, of 
whom every one at the Manor stood in awe, frightened her so 
much that she thought it would be impossible to resist his 
wish. He believed that she loved Maynard ; he had always 
spoken as if he were quite sure of it. How could she tell him 
he was deceived — and what if he were 1 1 ask her whether she 
loved any body else } To have Sir Christopher looking angrily 


154 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


at her, was more than she could bear, even in imagination. 
He had always been so good to her ! Then she began to 
think of the pain she might give him, and the more selfish 
distress of fear gave way to the distress of affection. Unself- 
ish tears began to flow, and sorrowful gratitude to Sir Chris- 
topher helped to awaken her sensibility to Mr. Gilfil’s tender- 
ness and generosity. 

“ Dear, good Maynard ! — what a poor return I make him ! 
If I could but have loved him instead — but I can never love 
or care for anything again. My heart is broken.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The next morning the dreaded moment came. Calerina, 
stupefied by the suffering of the previous night, with that dull 
mental aching which follows on acute anguish, was in Lady 
Cheverel’s sitting-room, copying out some charity-lists, when 
her ladyship came in, and said, 

“ Tina, Sir Christopher wants you ; go down into the li- 
brary.” 

She went down trembling. As soon as she entered. Sir 
Christopher, who was seated near his writing-table, said, “ Now, 
little monkey, come and sit down by me ; I have something 
to tell you.” 

Caterina took a footstool, and seated herself on it at the 
Baronet’s feet. It was her habit to sit on these low stools, 
and in this way she could hide her face better. She put Jier 
little arm round his leg, and leaned her cheek against his 
knee. 

“ Why, you seem out of spirits this morning, Tina. What’s 
the matter, eh ? ” 

“ Nothing, Padroncello ; only my head is bad.” 

“ Poor monkey ! Well, now, wouldn’t it do the head good 
if I were to promise you a good husband, and smart little wed- 
ding-gowns, and by and by a house of your own, where you 
would be a little mistress, and Padroncello would come and 
see you sometimes ? ” 

“ Oh no, no ! I shouldn’t like ever to be married. Let 
me always stay with you ! ” 

“ Pooh, pooh, little simpleton. I shall get old and tire- 


MR. GILFWS LCrVE-STORY. 


155 

some, and there will be Anthony’s children putting your nose 
out of joint. You will want some one to love you best of all, 
and you must have children of your own to love. I can’t have 
you withering away into an old maid. I hate old maids ; 
they make me dismal to look at them. I never see Sharp 
without shuddering. My little black-eyed monkey was never 
meant for anything so ugly. And there’s Maynard Gilfil, the 
best man in the county, worth his weight in gold, heavy as he 
is ; he loves you better than his eyes. And you love him too, 
you silly monkey, whatever you may say about not being mar- 
ried.” 

“ No, no, dear Padroncello, do not say so ; I could not 
marry him.” 

“ Why not, you foolish child ? You don’t know your own 
mind. Why, it is plain to everybody that you love him. My 
lady has all along said she was sure you loved him — she has 
seen what little princess airs you put on to him ; and Antho- 
too, he thinks you are in love with Gilfil. Come, what has 
made you take it intp your head that you wouldn’t like to 
marry him ? ” 

Caterina was now sobbing too deeply to make any answer. 
Sir Christopher patted her on the back and said, “ Come, 
come ; why, Tina, you are not well this morning. Go and 
rest, little one. You will see things in quite another light 
when you are well. Think over what 1 have said, and remem- 
ber there is nothing, after Anthony’s marriage, that I have 
set my heart on so much as seeing you and Maynard settled 
for life. I must have no whims and follies — no nonsense.” 
This was said with a slight severity ; but he presently added, 
in a soothing tone, “ There, there, stop crying, and be a good 
little monkey. Go and lie down and get to sleep.” 

Caterina slipped from the stool on to her knees, took the 
old Baronet’s hand, covered it with tears and kisses, and then 
ran out of the room. 

Before the evening. Captain Wybrow had heard from his 
uncle the result of the interview with Caterina. He thought, 
“ If I could have a long quiet talk with her, I could perhaps 
persuade her to look more reasonably at things. But there’s 
no speaking to her in the house without being interrupted, 
and I can hardly see her anywhere else without Beatrice’s 
finding it out.” At last he determined to make it a matter 
of confidence with Miss Assher — to tell her that he wished 
to talk to Caterina quietly for the sake of bringing her to a 
calmer state of mind, and persuade her to listen to Gilfil’s afi 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


156 

fections. He was very much pleased with this judicious and 
candid plan, and in the course of the evening he had arranged 
with himself the time and place of meeting, and had com- 
municated his purpose to Miss Assher, who gave her entire 
approval. Anthony, she thought, would do well to speak 
plainly and seriously to Miss Sard. He was really very pa- 
tient and kind to her, considering how she behaved. 

Tina had kept her room all that day, and had been care- 
fully tended as an invalid. Sir Christopher having told her 
ladyship how matters stood. This tendance was so irksome 
to Caterina, she felt so uneasy under attentions and kindness 
that were based on a misconception, that she exerted herself 
to appear at beakfast the next morning, and declared herself 
well, though head and heart were throbbing. To be confined 
in her own room was intolerable : it was wretched enough to 
be looked at and spoken to, but it was more wretched to be 
left alone. She was frightened at her own sensations ; she 
was frightened at the imperious vividness with which pictures 
of the past and future thrust themselves on her imagination. 
And there was another feeling, too, which made her want to 
be down stairs and moving about. Perhaps she might have 
an opportunity of speaking to Captain Wybrow alone — of 
speaking those words of hatred and scorn that burned on her 
tongue. That opportunity offered itself in a very unexpected 
manner. 

Lady Cheverel having sent Caterina out of the drawing- 
room to fetch some patterns of embroidery from her sitting- 
room, Captain Wybrow presently walked out after her, and 
met her as she was returning down stairs. 

“ Caterina,” he said, laying his hand on her arm as she 
was hurrying on without looking at him, “ will you meet me 
in the Rookery at twelve o’clock ? I must speak to you, and 
we shall be in privacy there. I cannot speak to you in the 
house.” 

To his surprise, there was a flash of pleasure across her 
face ; she answered shortly and decidedly, “ Yes,” then 
snatched her arm away from him, and passed down stairs. 

Miss Assher was this morning busy winding silks, being 
bent on emulating Lady Cheverel ’s embroidery, and Lady 
Assher chose the passive amusement of holding the skeins. 
Lady Cheverel had now all her working apparatus about her, 
and Caterina, thinking she was not wanted, went away and 
sat down to the harpsichord in the sitting-room. It seemed 
as if playing massive chords — bringing out volumes of sound, 


MR. GILFWS L O VE-S TOR V. 


157 


would be the easiest way of' passing the long feverish mo- 
ments before twelve o’clock. Handel’s “ iVIessiah ” stood 
open on the desk, at the chorus “ All we, like sheep,” and 
Caterina threw herself at once into the impetuous intricacies 
of that magnificent fugue. In her happiest moments she could 
never have played it so well ; for now all the passion that 
made her misery was hurled by a convulsive effort into her 
music, just as pain gives new force to the clutch of the sinking 
wrestler, and as terror gives far-sounding intensity to the 
shriek of the feeble. 

But at half past eleven she was interrupted by Lady Chev- 
erel, who said, “ Tina, go down, will you, and hold Miss As- 
sher’s silks for her. Lady Assher and I have decided on 
having our drive before luncheon.” 

Caterina went down, wondering how she should escape 
from the drawing-room in time to be in the Rookery at twelve. 
Nothing should prevent her from going ; nothing should rob 
her of this one precious moment — perhaps the last — w'hen 
she could speak out the thoughts that were in her. After 
that, she would be passive ; she would bear anything. 

But she had scarcely sat down with a skein of yellow silk 
on her hands, when Miss Assher said graciously, 

“ I know you have an engagement with Captain Wybrow 
this morning. You must not let me detain you beyond the 
time.” 

“ So he has been talking to her about me,” thought Cate- 
rina. Her hands began to tremble as she held the skein. 

Miss Assher continued, in, the same gracious tone : “ It is 
tedious work holding these skeins. I am sure I am very 
much obliged to you.” 

“ No, you are not obliged to me,” said Caterina, com- 
pletely mastered by her irritation ; “ I have only done it 
because Lady Cheverel told me.” 

The moment was come when Miss Assher could no longer 
suppress her long latent desire to “ let Miss Sarti know the 
impropriety of her conduct.” With the malicious anger that 
assumes the tone of compassion, she said, 

“ Miss Sarti, I am really sorry for you that you are not 
able to control yourself better. _ This giving way to unwarrant- 
able feelings is lowering you — it is indeed.” 

“What unwarrantable feelings?” said Caterina, letting 
her hands fall, and fixing her great dark eyes steadily on Miss 
^A-Sshcr 

“ It is quite unnecessary for me to say more. You must 


SCENES 01' CLERICAL LIFE. 


158 

be conscious what I mean. Only summon a sense of duty to 
your aid. You are paining Captain Wybrow extremely by 
your want of self-control.’^ 

“ Did he tell you I pained him ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed, he did. He is very much hurt that you 
should behave to me as if you had a sort of enmity towards 
me. He would like you to make a friend of me. I assure 
you we both feel very kindly towards you, and are sorry you 
should cherish such feelings.” 

“ He is very good,” said Caterina, bitterly. “ What feel- 
ings did he say I cherished ? ” 

This bitter tone increased Miss Assher’s irritation. There 
was still a lurking suspicion in her mind, though she would 
not admit it to herself, that Captain Wybrow had told her a 
falsehood about his conduct and feeling towards Caterina. It 
was this suspicion, more even than the anger of the moment, 
which urged her to say something that would test the truth 
of his statement. That she would be humiliating Caterina 
at the same time, was only an additional temptation. 

“ These are things I do not like to talk of, Miss Sarti. I 
cannot even understand how a woman can indulge a passion 
for a man who has never given her the least ground for it, as 
Captain Wybrow assures me is the case.” 

“He told you that, did he said Caterina, in clear low 
tones, her lips turning white as she rose from her chair. 

“ Yes, indeed, he did. He was bound to tell it me after 
your strange behavior.” 

Caterina said nothing, but turned round suddenly and 
left the room. 

See how she rushes noiselessly, like a pale meteor, along 
the passages and up the gallery stairs ! Those gleaming eyes, 
those bloodless lips, that swift silent tread, make her look like 
the incarnation of a fierce purpose, rather than a woman. 
The midday sun is shining on the armor in the gallery, mak- 
ing mimic suns on bossed sword-hilts and the angles of pol- 
ished breastplates. Yes, there are sharp weapons in the 
gallery. There is a dagger in that cabinet ; she knows it well. 
And as a dragon-fly wheels in its flight to alight for an 
instant on a leaf, she darts to the cabinet, takes out the dag- 
ger, and thrusts it into her pocket. In three minutes more 
she is out, in hat and cloak, on the gravel-walk, hurrying 
along towards the thick shades of the distant Rookery. She 
threads the windings of the plantations, not feeling the golden 
leaves that rain upon her, not feeling the earth beneath her 


MR. GILFIVS LOVE-STORY. 


iS9 

feetc Her hand is in her pocket, clinching the handle of the 
dagger, which she holds half out of its sheath. 

She has reached the Rookery, and is under the gloom of 
the interlacing boughs. Her heart throbs as if it would burst 
her bosom — as if every next beat must be its last. Wait, 
wait, O heart ! — till she has done this one deed. He will be 
there — he will be before her in a moment. He will come tow- 
ards her with that false smile, thinking she does not know 
his baseness — she will plunge that dagger into his heart. 

Poor child ! poor child ! she who used to cry to have the 
fish put back into the water — who never willingly killed the 
smallest living thing — dreams now, in the madness of her 
passion, that she can kill the man whose very voice unnerves 
her. 

But what is that lying among the dank leaves on the path 
three yards before her. 

Good God ! it is he — lying motionless — his hat fallen off. 
He is ill, then — he has fainted. Her hand lets go the dagger, 
and she rushes towards him. His eyes are fixed ; he does 
not see her. She sinks down on her knees, takes the dear 
head in her arms, and kisses the cold forehead. 

“ Anthony, Anthony ! speak to me — it is Tina — speak to 
me ! 0 God, he is dead ! 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“ Yes, Maynard,” said Sir Christopher, chatting with Mr. 
Glllfil in the library, ‘‘ it really is a remarkable thing that I 
never in my life laid a plan, and failed to carry it out. I lay 
njy plans well, and I never swerve from them — that’s it. A 
strong will is the only magic. And next to striking out one’s 
plans, the pleasantest thing in the world is to see them well 
accomplished. This year, now, will be the happiest of my 
life, all but the year ’53, when I came into possession of the 
Manor, and married Henrietta. The last touch is given to 
the old house; Anthony’s marriage — the thing I had nearest 
my heart — is settled to my entire satisfaction ; and by and by 
you will be buying a little wedding-ring for Tina’s finger. 
Don’t shake your head in that forlorn way when I make 
prophecies they generally come to pass. But there’s a quar- 


l6o SCENES OF CL EE /CAL IJFE. 

ter after twelve striking. I must be riding to the High Ash 
to meet Markham about felling some timber. My old oaks 
will have to groan for this wedding, but — ” 

The door burst open, and Caterina, ghastly and panting, 
her eyes distended with terror, rushed in, threw her arms 
round Sir Christopher’s neck, and gasping out — “ Anthony 
. . . the Rookery . . . dead ... in the Rookery,” fell faint- 
ing on the floor. 

In a moment Sir Christopher was out of the room, and 
Mr. Gilfil was bending to raise Caterina in his arms. As he 
lifted her from the ground he felt something hard and heavy 
in her pocket. What could it be The weight of it would 
be enough to hurt her as she lay. He carried her to the sofa, 
put his hand in her pocket, and drew forth the dagger. 

Maynard shuddered. Did she mean to kill herself, then, 
or ... or ... a horrible suspicion forced itself upon him, 
“ Dead — in the Rookery.” He hated himself for the thought 
that prompted him to draw the dagger from its sheath. No ! 
there was no trace of blood, and he was ready to kiss the good 
steel for its innocence. He thrust the weapon into his own 
pocket ; he would restore it as soon as possible to its well- 
known place in the gallery. Yet, why had Caterina taken 
this dagger ? What was it that had happened in the Rookery ? 
Was it only a delirious vision of hers ? 

He was afraid to ring — afraid to summon any one to Cate- 
rina’s assistance. What might she not say when she awoke 
from this fainting fit ? She might be raving. He could not 
leave her, and yet he felt as if he were guilty for not follow- 
ing Sir Christopher to see what was the truth. It took but a 
moment to think and feel all this, but that moment seemed 
such a long agony to him than he began to reproach himself 
for letting it pass without seeking some means of reviving 
Caterina. Happily the decanter of water on Sir Christopher’s 
table was untouched. He would at least try the effect of 
throwing that water over her. She might revive without his 
needing to call any one else. 

Meanwhile Sir Christopher was hurr}flng at his utmost 
speed towards the Rookery ; his face, so lately bright and 
confident, now agitated by a vague dread. The deep alarm- 
ed bark of Rupert, who ran by his side, had struck the ear of 
Mr. Bates, then on his way homeward, as something unwonted, 
and, hastening in the direction of the sound, he met the Bar- 
onet just as he was approaching the entrance of the Rookery. 
Sir Christopher’s look was enough. Mr. Bates said nothing, 


MR. GILFILS L O VE-STOR Y. , 6 1 

but hurried along by his side, while Rupert dashed forward 
among the dead leaves with his nose to the ground. They 
had scarcely lost sight of him a minute when a change in the 
tone of his bark told them that he had found something, and 
in another instant he was leaping back over one of the large 
planted mounds. They turned aside to ascend the mound, 
Rupert leading them \ the tumultuous cawing of the rooks, 
the very rustling of the leaves, as their feet plunged among 
them, falling like an evil omen on the Baronet’s ear. 

They had reached the summit of the mound, and had be- 
gun to descend. Sir Christopher saw something purple down 
on the path below among the yellow leaves. Rupert was 
already beside it, but Sir Christopher could not move faster. 
A tremor had taken hold of the firm limbs. Rupert came 
back and licked the trembling hand, as if to say “ Courage ! ” 
and then was down again snuffing the body. Yes, it was a 
body — Anthony’s body. There was the whiie hand with its 
diamond-ring clutching the dark leaves. His eyes were half 
open, but did not heed the gleam of sunlight that darted itself 
directly on them from between the boughs. 

Still he might only have fainted ; it might only be a fit. 
Sir Christopher knelt down, unfastened the cravat, unfastened 
tire waistcoat, and laid his hand on the heart. It might be 
syncope ; it might not — it could not be death. No ! that 
thought must be kept far off. 

“Go, Bates, get help; we’ll carry him to your cottage. 
Send some one to the house to tell Mr. Gilfil and Warren. 
Bid them send off for Doctor Hart, and break it to my lady 
and Miss Assher that Anthony is ill.” 

Mr. Bates hastened away, and the Baronet was left alone 
kneeling beside the body. The young and supple limbs, the 
rounded cheeks, the delicate ripe lips, the smooth white hands, 
were lying cold and rigid ; and the aged face was bending 
over them in silent anguish ; the aged deep-veined hand? 
were seeking with tremulous inquiring touches for some symp 
tom that life was not irrevocably gone. 

Rupert was there too, waiting and watching ; licking firs^ 
the dead and then the living hands ; then running off on Mr. 
Bates’s track as if he would follow and hasten his return, but 
in a moment turning back again, unable to quit the scene of 
his master’s sorrow. 


II 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


162 


CHAPTER XV. 

It is a wonderful moment, the first time we stand by one 
who has fainted, and witness the fresh birth of consciousness 
spreading itself over the blank features, like the rising sun- 
light on the alpine summits that lay ghastly and dead under 
the leaden twilight. A slight shudder, and the frost-bound 
eyes recover their liquid light \ for an instant they show the 
inward semi-consciousness of an infant’s ; then with a little 
start they open wider and begin to look; the present is visible 
but only as a strange writing, and the interpreter Memory is 
not yet there. 

Mr. Gilfil felt a trembling joy as this change passed over 
Caterina’s face. He bent over her, rubbing her chill hands, 
and looking at her with tender pity as her dark eyes opened 
on him wonderingly. He thought there might be some wine 
in the dining-room close by. He left the room, and Cate- 
rina’s eyes turned towards the window — towards Sir Christo- 
pher’s chair. There was the link at which the chain of con- 
sciousness had snapped, and the events of the morning were 
beginning to recur dimly like a half-remembered dream, when 
Maynard returned with some wine. He raised her, and she 
drank it ; but still she was silent, seeming lost in the attempt 
to recover the past, when the door opened, and Mr. Warren 
appeared with looks that announced terrible tidings. Mr. 
Gilfil, dreading lest he should tell them in Caterina’s presence, 
hurried towards him with his finger on his lips, and drew him 
away into the dining-room on the opposite side of the passage. 

Caterina, revived by the stimulant, was now recovering the 
full consciousness of the scene in the Rookery. Anthony was 
lying there dead ; she had left him to tell Sir Christopher ; she 
must go and see what they were doing with him : perhaps he 
was not really dead — only in a trance ; people did fall into 
trances sometimes. While Mr. Gilfil was telling Warren how^ it 
would be best to break tfie news to Lady Cheverel and Miss 
Assher, anxious himself to return to Caterina, the poor child 
had made her way feebly to the great entrance-door, which 
stood open.' Her strength increased as she moved and breath- 
ed the fresh air, and with every increase of strength came in- 
creased vividness of emotion, increased yearning to be where 
her thoughts was— in the Rookery with Anthony. She walked 


MR. GILFWS LOVE-STORY. 163 

more and more swiftly, and at last, gathering the artificial 
strength of passionate excitement, began to run. 

But now she heard the tread of heavy steps, and under the 
yellow shade near the wooden bridges she saw men slowly 
carrying something. Soon she was face to face with them. 
Anthony was no longer in the Rookery ; they were carrying him 
stretched on a door, and there behind him was Sir Christopher, 
with the firmly-set mouth, the deathly paleness, and the con- 
centrated expression of suffering in the eye, which mark the 
suppressed grief of the strong man. The sight of this face, on 
which Caterina had never before beheld the signs of anguish 
caused a rush of new feeling which for the moment submerged, 
all the rest. She w^ent gently up to him, put her little hand 
in his, and walked in silence by his side. Sir Christopher 
could not tell her to leave him, and so she went on with that 
sad procession to Mr. Bates’s cottage in the Mosslands, and 
sat there in silence, waiting and watching to know if Anthony 
were really dead. 

She had not yet missed the dagger from her pocket ; she 
had not yet even thought of it. At the sight of Anthony lying 
dead, her nature had rebounded from its new bias of resent- 
ment and hatred to the old sw^eet habit of love. The earliest 
and the longest has still the mastery over us j and the only 
past that linked itself with those glazed unconscious eyes, 
was the past when they beamed on her with tenderness. She 
forgot the interval of wrong and jealousy and hatred — all his 
cruelty, and all her thoughts of revenge — as the exile forgets 
the stormy passage that lay between home and happiness and 
the dreary land in which he finds himself desolate. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Before night all hope was gone. Dr. Hart had said it 
was death ; Anthony’s body had been carried to the house, 
and every one there knew the calamity that had fallen on 
them. 

Caterina had been questioned by Dr. Hart, and had an- 
swred briefly that she found Anthony lying in the Rookery. 
That she should have been walking there just at that time was 
not a coincidence to raise conjectures in any one besides Mr. 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


164 

Gilfil. Except in answering this question, she had not broken 
her silence. She sat mute in a corner of the gardener’s kitch- 
en, shaking her head when Maynard entreated her to return 
with him, and apparently unable to think of anything but 
the possibility that Anthony might revive, until she saw them 
carrying away the body to the house. Then she followed by 
Sir Christopher’s side ^ain, so quietly, that even Dr. Hart 
did not object to her presence. 

It was decided to lay the body in the library until after 
the coroner’s inquest to-morrow ; and when Caterina saw the 
door finally closed, she turned up the gallery stairs on her way 
to her own room, the place where she felt at home with her 
sorrows. It was the first time she had been in the gallery 
since that terrible moment in the morning, and now the spot 
and the objects around began to reawaken her half-stunned 
memory. The armor was no longer glittering in the sunlight, 
but there it hung dead and sombre above the cabinet from 
which she had taken the dagger. Yes ! now it all came back 
to her — all the wretchedness and all the sin. But where was 
the dagger now } She felt in her pocket ; it was not there. 
Could it have been her fancy — all that about the dagger ? She 
looked in the cabinet ; it was not there. Alas ! no ; it could 
not have been her fancy, and she 7£^as guilty of that wicked- 
ness. But where could the dagger be now .? Could it have 
fallen out of her pocket ? She heard steps ascending the stairs, 
and hurried on to her room, where, kneeling by the bed, and 
burying her face to shut out the hateful light, she tried to re- 
call every feeling and incident of the morning. 

It all came back ; everything Anthony had done, and every- 
thing she had felt for the last month — for many months — 
ever since that June evening when he had last spoken to her 
in the gallery. She looked back on her storms of passion, 
her jealousy and hatred of Miss Assher, her thoughts of re- 
venge on Anthony. Oh how wicked she had been ! It was 
she who had been sinning : it was she who had driven him to 
do and say those things that had made her so angry. And 
if he had wronged her, what had she been on the verge of doing 
to him ? She was too wicked ever to be pardoned. She would 
like to confess how wicked she had been, that they might pun- 
ish her; she would like to humble herself to the dust before 
every one — before Miss Assher even. Sir Christopher would 
send her away — would never see her again, if he knew all ; 
and she would be happier to be punished and frowned on, 
than to be treated tenderly while she had that guilty secret 


MR. GILFIVS L O VE-STOR K 


165 

in her breast. But then, if Sir Christopher were to know all, 
it would add to his sorrow, and make him more wretched than 
ever. No ! she could not confess it — she should have to tell 
about Anthony. But she could not stay at the Manor ; she must 
go away ; she could not bear Sir Christopher’s eye, could not 
bear the sight of all these things that reminded her of An- 
thony and of her sin. Perhaps she should die soon : she felt 
very feeble ; there could not be much life in her. She would 
go away and live humbly, and pray to God to pardon her, 
and let hei»die. 

The poor child never thought of suicide. No sooner was 
the storm of anger passed than the tenderness and timidity 
of her nature returned, and she could do nothing but love and 
mourn. Her inexperience prevented her from imagining the 
consequences of her disappearance from the Manor ; she fore- 
saw none of the terrible details of alarm and distress and 
search that must ensue. “ They will think I am dead,” she 
said to herself, “ and by and by they will forget me, and May- 
nard will get happy again, and love some one else.” 

She was roused from her absorption by a knock at the 
door. Mrs. Bellamy was there. She had come by Mr. Gilfil’s 
request to see how Miss Sarti was, and to bring her some food 
and wine. 

“ You look sadly, my dear,” said the old housekeeper, “ an* 
you’re all of a quake, wi’ cold. Get you to bed, now do. 
Martha shall come an’ warm it, an’ light your fire. See now, 
here’s some nice arrowroot, wi’ a drop o’ wine in it. Take 
that, an’ it’ll warm you. I must go down again, for I can’t 
awhile to stay. There’s so many things to see to ; an’ Miss 
Assher’s in hysterics constant, an’ her maid’s ill i’ bed — a poor 
creachy thing — an’ Mrs. Sharp’s wanted every minute. But 
I’ll send Martha up, an’ do you get ready to go to bed, there’s 
a dear child, an’ take care o’ yourself.” 

“ Thank you, dear mammy,” said Tina, kissing the little 
old woman’s wrinkled cheek ; “ I shall eat the arrowroot, and 
don’t trouble about me any more to-night. I shall do very 
well when Martha has lighted my fire. Tell Mr. Gilfil I’m bet- 
ter. I shall go to bed by and by, so don’t you come up again, 
because you may only disturb me.” 

‘‘ Well, well, take care o’ yourself, there’s a good child, an’ 
God send you may sleep.” 

Caterina took the arrowroot quite eagerly, while Martha 
was lighting her fire. She wanted to get strength for her 
journey, and she kept the plate of biscuits by her that she 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


1 66 

might put some in her pocket. Her whole mind was now 
bent on going away from the Manor, and she was thinking 
of all the ways and means her little life’s experience could 
suggest. 

It was dusk now ; she must wait till early dawn, for she 
was too timid to go away in the dark, but she must make her 
escape before any one was up in the house. There would be 
people watching Anthony in the library, but she could make 
her way out of a small door leading into the garden, against 
the drawing-room on the other side of the house. 

She laid her cloak, bonnet, and veil, ready ; then she 
•lighted a candle, opened her desk, and took out the broken 
portrait wrapped in paper. She folded it again in two little 
notes of Anthony’s, written in pencil, and placed it in her 
bosom. There was the little china box, too — Dorcas’s pres- 
ent, the pearl ear-rings, and a silk purse, with fifteen seven- 
shilling pieces in it, the presents Sir Christopher had made 
her on her birthday, ever since she had been at the Manor. 
Should she take the ear-rings and the seven-shilling pieces ? 
She could not bear to part with them ; it seemed as if they had 
some of Sir Christopher’s love in them. She would like 
them to be buried with her. She fastened the little round 
ear-i;ings in her ears, and put the purse with Dorcas’s box in 
her pocket. She had another purse there, and she took it out 
to count her money, for she would never spend her seven- 
shilling pieces. She had a guinea and eight shillings \ that 
would be plenty. 

So now she sat down to wait for the morning, afraid to 
lay herself on the bed lest she should sleep too long. If she 
could but see Anthony once more and kiss his cold forehead ! 
But that could not be. She did not deserve it. She must 
go away from him, away from Sir Christopher, and Lady 
Cheverel and Maynard, and everybody who had been kind 
to her, and thought her good while she was so wicked. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Some of Mrs. Sharp’s earliest thoughts, the next morning, 
were given to Caterina, whom she had not been able to visit 
the evening before, and whom, from a nearly equal mixture 


MR. GILFIVS LOVE-STORY. 


167 

of affection and self-importance, she did not at all like resign*- 
ing to Mrs. Bellamy’s care. At half-past eight o’clock she 
went up to Tina’s room, bent on benevolent dictation as to 
doses and diet and lying in bed. But on opening the door 
she found the bed smooth and empty. Evidently it had not 
been slept in. What could this mean } Had she sat up all 
night, and was she gone out to walk ? The poor thing’s head 
might be touched by what had happened yesterday ; it was 
such a shock — finding Captain Wybrow in that way ; she was 
perhaps gone out of her mind. Mrs. Sharp looked anxiously 
in the place where Tina kept her hat and cloak; they were 
not there, so that she had had at least the presence of mind 
to put them on. Slill the good woman felt greatly alarmed, 
and hastened away to tell Mr. Gilfil, who, she knew, was in 
his study. 

“ Mr. Gilfil,” she said, as soon as she had closed the door 
behind her, “my mind misgives me dreadful about Miss 
Sard.” 

“ What is it ? ” said poor Maynard, with a horrible fear 
that Caterina had betrayed something about the dagger. 

“ She’s not in her room, an’ her bed’s not been slept in 
this night, an’ her hat an’ cloak’s gone.” 

For a minute or two Mr. Gilfil was unable to speak. He 
felt sure the worst had come; Caterina had destroyed her- 
self. The strong man suddenly looked so ill and helpless 
that Mrs. Sharp began to be frightened at the effect of her 
abruptness. 

“ Oh, sir, I’m grieved to my heart to shock you so ; but I 
didn’t know who else to go to.” 

“ No, no, you were quite right.” 

He gathered some strength from his very despair. It was 
all over, and he had nothing now to do but to suffer and to 
help the suffering. He went on in a firmer voice : 

“ Be sure not to breathe a word about it to any one. We 
must not alarm Lady Cheverel and Sir Christopher. Miss 
Sarti may be only walking in the garden. She was terribly 
excited by what she saw yesterday, and perhaps was unable 
to lie down from restlessness. Just go quietly through the 
empty rooms, and see whether she is in the house. I will go 
and look for her in the grounds.” 

He went down, and, to avoid giving any alarm in the 
house, walked at once towards the Mosslands in search of Mr. 
Bates, whom he met returning from his breakfast. To the 
gardener he confided his fear about Caterina, assigning as a 


i68 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


reason for this fear the probability that the shock she had un- 
dergone yesterday had unhinged her mind, and begging him to 
send men in search of her through the gardens and park, and 
inquire if she had been seen in the lodges : and if she were 
not found or heard of in this way, to lose no time in dragging 
the waters round the Manor. 

“God forbid it should be so. Bates, but we shall be the 
easier for having searched everywhere.” 

“Troost to mae, troost to mae, Mr. Gilfil. Eh ! but I’d 
ha’ worked for day-wage all the rest o’ my life, rether than 
anythin’ should ha’ happened to her.” 

The good gardener, in deep distress, strode away to the 
stables that he might send the grooms on horseback through 
the park. 

Mr. Gilfil’s next thought was to search the Rookery ; she 
might be haunting the scene of Captain Wybrow’s death. He 
went hastily over every mound, looked round every large 
tree, and followed every winding of the walks. In reality he 
had little hope of finding her there ; but the bare possibility 
fenced off for a time the fatal conviction that Cateri- 
na’s body would be found in the w'ater. When the Rookery 
had been searched in vain, he walked fast to the border of 
the little stream that bounded one side of the grounds. The 
stream was almost everywhere hidden among trees, and there 
was one place where it was broader and deeper than else- 
where — she w’ould be more likely to come to that spot than to 
the pool.^ He hurried along with strained eyes, his imagina- 
tion continually creating what he dreaded to see. 

^ There is something white behind that overhanging bough. 
His knees tremble under him. He seems to see" part of her 
dress caught on a branch, and her dear dead face upturned. 
O God, give strength to thy creature, on whom thou hast laid 
this great agony ! He is nearly up to the bough, and the 
white object is moving. It is a waterfowl, that spreads its 
wings and flies away screaming. He hardly knows whether 
it is a relief or a disappointment that she is not there. The 
conviction that she is dead presses its cold weight upon him 
none the less heavily. 

As he reached the great pool in front of the Manor, he 
saw Mr. Bates, with a group of men already there, preparing 
for the dreadful search which could only displace his vague 
despair by a definite horror ; for the gardener, in his restless 
anxiety, had been unable to defer this until other means of 
search had proved vain. The pool was not now laughing with 


GILFinS LOVE-STORY, 


169 

sparkles among the water-lilies. It looked black and cruel 
under the sombre sky, as if its cold depths held relentlessly 
all the murdered hope and joy of Maynard Gilfil’s life. 

Thoughts of the sad consequences for others as well as 
himself were crowding on his mind. The blinds and shutters 
were all closed in front of the Manor, and it was not likely 
that Sir Christopher would be aware of anything that was 
passing outside ; but Mr. Gilfil felt that Caterina’s disappear- 
ance could not long be concealed from him. The coroner’s 
inquest would be held shortly ; she would be inquired for, and 
then it would be inevitable that the Baronet should know all. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

At twelve o’clock, when all search and inquiry had been 
in vain, and the coroner was expected every moment, Mr. 
Gilfil could no longer defer the hard duty of revealing this 
fresh calamity to Sir Christopher, who must otherwise have 
it discovered to him abruptly. 

The Baronet was seated in his dressing-room, where the 
dark window-curtains were drawn so as to admit only a 
sombre light. It was the first time Mr. Gilfil had had an in- 
terview with him this morning, and he was struck to see how 
a single day and night of grief bad aged the hne old man. 
The lines in his brow and about his mouth were deepened ; 
his complexion looked dull and withered ; there was a swol- 
len ridge undei his eyes; and the eyes themselves, which 
used to cast so keen a glance on the present, had the vacant 
expression which tells that vision is no longer a sense, but a 

He'held out his hand to Maynard, who pressed it, and sat 
down beside him in silence. Sir Christopher’s heart bepn 
to swell at this unspoken sympathy ; the tears row*/ rise, 
wotdd roll in great drops down his cheeks. The first tears he 
had shed since boyhood were for Anthony. 

Maynard felt as if his tongue were glued to the root ot 
his mouth. He could not speak first: he must wait until 
Sir Christopher said something which might lead on to tne 
cruel words that must be spoken. 

At last the Baronet mastered himself enough to say, 1 m 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


170 

very weak, Maynard — God help me ! I didn’t think any- 
thing would unman me in this way j but I’d built everything 
on that lad. Perhaps I’ve been wrong in not forgiving my 
sister. She lost one of her sons a little while ago. I’ve been 
too proud and obstinate.’’ 

“ We can hardly learn humility and tenderness enough 
except by suffering,” said Maynard ; “ and God sees we are 
in need of suffering, for it is falling more and more heavily 
on us. We have a new trouble this morning.” 

“ Tina ? ” said Sir Christopher, looking up anxiously — “ is 
Tina ill ? ” 

“ I am in dreadful uncertainty about her. She was very 
much agitated yesterday— and with her delicate health— I am 
afraid to think what turn the agitation may have taken.” 

“ Is she delirious, poor dear little one ! ” 

“ God only knows how she is. We are unable to find her. 
When Mrs. Sharp went up to her room this morning it was 
empty. She had not been in bed. Her hat and cloak were 
gone. I have had search made for her everywhere — in the 
house and garden, in the park, and — in the water. No one 
has seen her since Martha went up to light her fire at seven 
o’clock in the evening.” 

'While Mr. Gilfil was speaking. Sir Christopher’s eyes, 
which were eagerly turned on him, recovered some of their old 
keenness, and some sudden painful emotion, as at a new 
thought, flitted rapidly across his already agitated face, like 
the shadow of a dark cloud over the waves. When the pause 
came, he laid his hand on Mr. Gilfil’s arm, and said in a 
lower voice, 

Maynard, did that poor thing love Anthony ? ” 

“ She did.” 

Maynard hesitated after these words, struggling between 
his reluctance to inflict a yet deeper wound on Sir Christo- 
pher, and his determination that no injustice should be done 
to Caterina. Sir Christopher’s eyes were still fixed on him 
in solemn inquiry, and his own sunk towards the ground, 
while he tried to find the words that would tell the truth 
least cruelly. 

“ You must not have any wrong thoughts about Tina,” he 
said, at length. “ I must tell you now, for her sake, what 
nothing but this should ever have caused to pass my lips. 
Captain Wybrow won her affections by attentions which, in 
his position, he was bound not to show her. Before his mar- 
riage was talked of, he had behaved to her like a lover.” 


MR, GILFIVS LOVE-STORY. 


171 

Sir Christopher relaxed his hold of Maynard’s arm, and 
looked away from him. He was silent for some minutes, evi- 
dently attempting to master himself, so as to be able to speak 
calmly. 

“ I must see Henrietta immediately,” he said at last, with 
something of his old sharp decision ; “ she must know all ; but 
we must keep it from every one else as far as possible. My 
dear boy,” he continued in a kinder tone, “ the heaviest bur- 
then has fallen on you. But we may find her yet ; we must 
not despair ; there has not been time enough for us to be cer- 
tain. Poor dear little one ! God help me ! I thought I saw 
everything, and was stone-blind all the while.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

The sad slow week was gone by at last. At the coroner’s 
inquest a verdict of sudden death had been pronounced. Dr. 
Hart, acquainted with Captain Wybrow’s previous state of 
health, had given his opinion that death had been imminent 
from long-established disease of the heart, though it had prob- 
ably accelerated by some unusual emotion. Miss As- 

sher was the only person who positively knew the motive 
that led Captain Wybrow to the Rookery ; but she had not 
mentioned Caterina’s name, and all painful details or inquiries 
were studiously kept from her. Mr. Gilfil and Sir Christopher, 
however, knew enough to conjecture that the fatal agitation 
was due to an appointed meeting with Caterina. 

All search and inquiry after her had been fruitless, and 
were the more likely to be so because they were carried on 
under the prepossession that she had committed suicide. No 
one noticed the absence of the trifles she had taken from her 
desk ; no one knew of the likeness, or that she had hoarded 
her seven-shilling pieces, and it was not remarkable that she 
should have happened to be wearing the pearl ear-rings. She 
had left the house, they thought, taking nothing with her; it 
seemed impossible she could have gone far ; and she must 
have been in a state of mental excitement that made it too 
probable he had only gone to seek relief in death. The same 
places within three or four ipiles of the Manor were searched 
again and again — every pond, every ditch in the neighbor- 
hood was examined. 


172 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


Sometimes Maynard thought that death might have come 
on unsought, from cold and exhaustion ; and not a day passed 
but he wandered through the neighboring woods, turning up 
the heaps of dead leaves, as if it were possible her dear body 
could be hidden there. Then another horrible thought re- 
curred, and before each night came he had been again through 
all the uninhabited rooms of the house, to satisfy himself 
once more that she was not hidden behind some cabinet, or 
door, or curtain — that he should not find her there with mad- 
ness in her eyes, looking and looking, and yet not seeing him. 

But at last those five long days and nights were at an 
end, the funeral was over, and the carriages were returning 
through the park. When they had set out, a heavy rain was 
falling ; but now the clouds were breaking up, and a gleam 
of sunshine was sparkling among the dripping boughs under 
which they were passing. This gleam fell upon a man on 
horseback who was jogging slowly along, and whom Mr. 
Gilfil recognized, in spite of diminished rotundity, as Daniel 
Knott, the coachman who had married the rosy-cheeked Dor- 
cas ten years before. 

Every new incident suggested the same thought to Mr. 
Gilfil ; and his eye no sooner fell on Knott than he said to 
himself, “Can he be come to tell us anything about Cate- 
rina ? ” Then he remembered that Caterina had been very 
fond of Dorcas, and that she always had some present ready 
to send her when Knott paid an occasional visit to the Man- 
or. Could Tina have gone to Dorcas ? But his heart sank 
again as he thought, very likely Knott had only come be- 
cause he had heard of Captain Wybrow’s death, and wanted 
to know how his old master had borne the blow. 

As soon as the carriage reached the house, he went up to 
his study and walked about nervously, longing, but afraid, to 
go down and speak to Knott, lest his faint hope should be 
dissipated. Any one looking at that face, usually so full of 
calm good-will, would have seen that the last week’s suffering 
had left deep traces. By day he had been riding or wander- 
ing incessantly, either searching for Caterina himself, or di- 
recting inquiries to be made by others. By night he had 
not known sleep — only intermittent dozing in which he 
seemed to be finding Caterina dead, and woke up with a start 
from this unreal agony to the real anguish of believing that 
he should see her no more. The clear gray eyes looked sunk- 
en and restless, the full careless lips had a strange tension 
about them, and the brow, formerly so smooth and open, was 


MR. GILFIVS L O V£-S TOR Y. 


ns 

contracted as if with pain. He had not lost the object of a 
few months’ passion ; he had lost the being who was bound 
up with his power of loving, as the brook we played by or 
the flowers we gathered in childhood are bound up with our 
sense of beauty. Love meant nothing for him but to love 
Caterina. For years, the thought of her had been present 
in everything, like the air and the light : and now she was 
gone, it seemed as if all pleasure had lost its vehicle ; the 
sky, the earth, the daily ride, the daily talk might be there, 
but the loveliness and joy that were in them had gone for- 
ever. 

Presently, as he still paced backward and forward, he 
heard steps along the corridor, and there was a knock at his 
door. His voice trembled as he said “ Come in,” and the 
rush of renewed hope was hardly distinguishable from pain 
when he saw Warren enter with Daniel Knott behind him. 

“ Knott is come, sir, with news of Miss Sard. I thought 
it best to bring him to you first.” 

Mr. Gilfil could not help going up to the old coachman 
and wringing his hand ; but he was unable to speak, and only 
motioned to him to take a chair, while Warren left the room. 
He hung upon Daniel’s moon-face, and listened to his small 
piping voice, with the same solemn yearning expectation with 
which he would have given ear to the most awful messenger 
from the land of shades. 

“ It war Dorkis, sir, would hev me come ; but we knowed 
nothin’ o’ what’s happened at the Manor. She’s frightened 
out on her wits about Miss Sarti, an’ she would hev me sad- 
dle Blackbird this mornin,’ an’ leave the ploughin’, to come 
an’ let Sir Christifer an’ my lady know. P’raps you’ve 
beared, sir, we don’t keep the Cross Keys at Sloppeter now ; a 
uncle o’ mine died three ’ear ago, an’ left me a leggicy. He 
was bailiff to Squire Ramble, as hed them there big farms on 
his bans ; an’ so we took a little farm o’ forty acres or there- 
abouts, becos Dorkis didn’t like the public when she got 
moithered wi’ children. As pritty a place as iver you see, 
sir, wi’ water at the back convenent for the cattle.” 

“ For God’s sake,” said Maynard, “ tell me what it is 
about Miss Sarti. Don’t stay to tell me anything else now.” 

“Well, sir,” said Knott, rather frightened by the parson’s 
vehemence, “she come t’our house i’ the carrier’s cart o’ 
Wednesday, when it was welly nine o’clock at night ; and 
Dorkis run out, for she heated the cart stop, an’ Miss Sarti 
throwed her arms roun’ Dorkis’s neck an’ says, ‘ Tek me in, 


174 


SCEA^ES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


Dorkis, tek me in,’ an’ went off into a swoond, like. An’ 
Dorkis calls out to me, — ‘ Dannel,’ she calls — an’ I run out 
and carried the young miss in, an’ she come roun’ artera bit, 
an’ opened her eyes, and Dorkis got her to drink a spoonful 
o’ rum-an’-water — we’ve got some capital rum as we brought 
from the Cross Keys, and Dorkis won’t let nobody drink it. 
She says she keeps it for sickness : but for my part, I think 
it’s a pity to drink good rum when your mouth’s out o’ taste ,* 
you may jest as well hev doctor’s stuff. However, Dorkis 
got to her bed, an’ there she’s lay iver sin’, stoopid like, an’ 
niver speaks, an’ on’y teks little bits an’ sups when Dorkis 
coaxes her. An’ we begun to be frightened, an’ couldn’t 
think what had made her come away from the Manor, and 
Dorkis was afeared there was summat wrong. So this morn- 
in’ she could hold no longer, an’ would hev no nay but I 
must come and see ; an’ so I’ve rode twenty mile upo’ Black- 
bird, as thinks all the while he’s a-ploughin’, an’ turns sharp 
roun’, every thirty yards, as if he was at the end of a furrow. 
I’ve hed a sore time wi’ him, I can tell you, sir.” 

“ God bless you, Knott, for coming ! ” said Mr. Gilfil, wring- 
ing the old coachman’s hand again. “ Now go down and 
have something and rest yourself. You will stay here to- 
night, and by and by I shall come to you to learn the nearest 
way to your house. I shall get ready to ride there immedi- 
ately, when I have spoken to Sir Christopher.” 

In an hour from that time Mr. Gilfil was galloping on a 
stout mare towards the little muddy village of Callam, five 
miles beyond Sloppeter. Once more he saw some gladness 
in the afternoon sunlight ; once more it was a pleasure to see 
the hedgerow trees flying past him, and to be conscious of a 
“ good seat ” while his black Kitty bounded beneath him, 
and the air whistled to the rhythm of her pace. Caterina 
was not dead ; he had found her ; his love and tenderness and 
long-suffering seemed so strong, they must recall her to life 
and happiness. After that week of despair, the rebound was 
so violent that it carried his hopes at once as far as the ut- 
most mark they had ever reached. Caterina would come to 
love him at last ; she would be his. They had been carried 
through all that dark and weary way that she might know 
the depth of his love. How he would cherish her — his little 
bird with the timid bright eye and the sweet throat that 
trembled with love and music! She would nestle against 
him, and the poor little breast which had been so ruffled and 
bruised should be safe for evermore. In the love of a brave 


MR. GILFWS LOVE-STORY. 


175 

and faithful man there is always a strain of maternal tender- 
ness ; he gives out again those beams of protecting fondness 
which were shed on him as he lay on his mother’s knee. 

It was twilight as he entered the village of Callam, and, 
asking a homeward-bound laborer the way to Daniel Knott’s, 
learned that it was by the church, which showed its stumpy 
ivy-clad spire on a slight elevation of ground ; a useful addi- 
tion to the means of identifying that desirable homestead af- 
forded by Daniel’s description — “ the prittiest place iver you 
see ” — though a small cow-yard full of excellent manure, and 
leading right up to the door, without any frivolous interrup- 
tion from garden or railing, might perhaps have been enough 
to make that description unmistakably specific. 

Mr. Gilfil had no sooner reached the gate leading into the 
cow-yard, than he was descried by a flaxen-haired lad of nine, 
prematurely invested with the toga virilis, or smock-frock, who 
ran forward to let in the unusual visitor. In a moment Dorcas 
was at the door, the roses on her cheeks apparently all the 
redder for the three pair of cheeks which formed a group 
round her, and for the very fat baby who stared in her arms, 
and sucked a long crust with calm relish. 

“ Is it Mr. Gilfil, sir ? ” said Dorcas, courtesying low as he 
made his way through the damp straw, after tying up his 
horse. 

“ Yes, Dorcas j I’m grown out of your knowledge. How 
is Miss Sard ? ” 

“ Just for all the world the same, sir, as I suppose Dan- 
nel’s told you ; for I reckon you’ve come from the Manor, 
though you’re come uncommon quick, to be sure.” 

“ Yes, he got to the Manor about one o’clock, and I set off 
as soon as I could. She’s not worse, is she?” 

No change, sir, for better or wuss. Will you please to 
walk in, sir? She lies there takin’ no notice o’ nothin’, no 
more nor a baby as is on’y a week old, an’ looks at me as 
blank as if she didn’t know me. Oh, what can it be, Mr. Gflfil ? 
How come she to leave the Manor ? How’s his honor an’ my 
lady ? ” 

“ In great trouble, Dorcas. Captain Wybrow, Sir Chris- 
topher’s nephew, you know, has died suddenly. Miss Sarti 
found him lying dead, and I think the shock has affected her 
mind.” 

“ Eh, dear ! that fine young gentleman as was to be th 
heir, as Dannel told me about. I remember seein’ him when 
he was a little un, a-visitin’ at the Manor. Well-a-day, what 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


176 

a grief to his honor and my lady. But that poor Miss Tina — 
an’ she found him a-lyin’ dead 1 Oh dear, oh dear ! ” 

Dorcas had led the way into the best kitchen, as charming 
a room as best kitchens used to be in farm-houses which had 
no parlors — the fire reflected in a bright row of pewter plates 
and dishes ; the sand-scoured deal tables so clean you longed 
to stroke them ; the salt-coffer in one chimney-corner, and a 
three-cornered chair in the other, the walls behind handsomely 
tapestried with flitches of bacon, and the ceiling ornamented 
with pendent hams. 

“ Sit ye down, sir — do,” said Dorcas, moving the three-cor- 
nered chair, “an’ let me get you somethin’ after your long 
journey. Here, Becky, come an’ tek the baby.” 

Becky, a red-armed damsel, emerged from the adjoining 
back-kitchen, and possessed herself of baby, whose feelings 
or fat made him conveniently apathetic under the transfer- 
rence. 

“ What’ll you please to tek, sir, as I can give you ? I’ll get 
you a rasher o’ bacon i’ no time, an’ I’ve got some tea, or be- 
like you’d tek a glass o’ rum-an’-water. I know we’ve got 
nothin’ as you’re used t’eat and drink ; but such as I hev, sir, 
I shall be proud to give you.” 

“ Thank you, Dorcas ; I can’t eat or drink anything. I’m 
not hungry or tired. Let us talk about Tina. Has she spoken 
at all ? ” 

“ Niver since the fust words. ‘ Dear Dorkis,’ says she, 

‘ tek me in an’ then went off into a faint, an’ not a word has 
she spoken since. I get her t’eat little bits an’ sups o’ things 
but she teks no notice o’ nothin’. I’ve took up Bessie wi’ me 
now an’ then ” — here Dorcas lifted to her lap a curly-headed 
little girl of three, who was twisting a corner of her mother’s 
apron, and opening round eyes at the gentleman — “folks’ll 
tek notice o’ children sometimes when they won’t o’ nothin’ 
else. An’ we gathered the autumn crocuses out o’ th’ orchard 
and Bessie carried ’em up in her hand, an’ put ’em on the 
bed. I knowed how fond Miss Tina was o’ flowers an’ them 
things, wlien she was a little un. But she looked at Bessie 
an’ the flowers just the same as if she didn’t see ’em. It 
cuts me to th’ heart to look at them eyes o’ hers ; I think 
they’re bigger nor iver, an’ they look like my poor baby’s 
as died, when it got so thin — Oh dear, its little hands you 
could see thro’ ’em. But I’ve great ho])es if she was to see 
you, sir, as come from the Manor, it might bring back her 
mind, like.” 


MJ?. GILFWS LOVE-STORY. 


177 

Maynard had that hope too, but he felt cold mists of fear 
gathering round him after the few bright warm hours of joyful 
confidence which had passed since he first heard that Caterina 
was alive. The thought would urge itself upon him that her 
mind and body might never recover the strain that had been 
put upon them — that her delicate thread of life had already 
nearly spun itself out. 

“ Go now, Dorcas, and see how she is, but don’t say any- 
thing about my being here. Perhaps it would be better for 
me to wait till daylight before I see her, and yet it would be 
very hard to pass another night in this way.” 

Dorcas set down little Bessie, and went away. The three 
other children, including young Daniel in his smock-frock, 
were standing opposite to Mr. Gilfil, watching him still more 
shyly now they were without their mother’s countenance. He 
drew little Bessie towards him, and set her on his knee. She 
shook her yellow curls out of her eyes, and looked up at him 
as she said, 

“ Zoo tome to tee ze yady ? Zoo mek her peak ? What 
zoo do to her ? Tiss her ? ” 

“ Do you like to be kissed, Bessie } ” 

“ Det,” said Bessie, immediately ducking down her head 
very low, in resistance to the expected rejoinder. 

“ We’ve got two pups,” said young Daniel, emboldened by 
observing the gentleman’s amenities towards Bessie. “ Shall 
I show ’em yer ? One’s got white spots.” 

“ Yes, let me see them.” 

Daniel ran out, and presently reappeared with two blind 
puppies, eagerly followed by the mother, affectionate though 
mongrel, and an exciting scene was beginning when Dorcas 
returned and said, 

“ There’s niver any difference in her hardly. I think you 
needn’t wait, sir. She lies very still, as she al’ys does. I’ve 
put two candles i’ the room, so as she may see you well. 
You’ll please t’ excuse the room, sir, an’ the cap as she has 
on ; it’s one o’ mine.” 

Mr. Gilfil nodded silently, and rose to follow her up stairs. 
They turned in at the first door, their footsteps making little 
noise on the plaster floor. The red-checkered linen curtains 
were drawn at the head of the bed, and Dorcas had placed 
the candles on this side of the room, so that the light might 
not fall oppressively on Caterina’s eyes. When she had 
opened the door, Dorcas whispered, “ I’d better leave you, sir, 
I think > ” 


12 


178 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


Mr. Gilfil motioned assent, and advanced beyond the cur- 
tain. Caterina lay with her eyes turned the other way, and 
seemed unconscious that any one had entered. Her eyes, as 
Dorcas had said, looked larger than ever, perhaps because 
her face was thinner and paler, and her hair quite gathered 
away under one of Dorcas’s thick caps. The small hands, 
too, that lay listlessly on the outside of the bed-clothes were 
thinner than ever. She looked younger than she really was, 
and any one seeing the tiny face and hands for the first 
time might have thought they belonged to a little girl of 
twelve, who was being taken away from coming instead of 
past sorrow'. 

When Mr. Gilfil advanced and stood opposite to her, the 
light fell full upon his face. A slight startled expression came 
over Caterina’s eyes ; she looked at him earnestly for a few 
moments, then lifted up her hand as if to beckon him to stoop 
down towards her, and whispered, “ Maynard ! ” 

He seated himself on the bed, and stooped down towards 
her. She whispered again — 

“ Maynard, did you see the dagger ? ” 

He followed his first impulse in answering her, and it was 
a wise one. 

“Yes,” he whispered, “ I found it in your pocket, and put 
it back again in the cabinet.” 

He took her hand in his and held it gently, awaiting what 
she would say next. His heart swelled so with thankfulness 
that she had recognized him, he could hardly repress a sob. 
Gradually her eyes became softer and less intense in their 
gaze. The tears were slowdy gathering, and presently some 
large hot drops rolled down her cheek. Then the flood-gates 
were opened, and the heart-eating stream gushed forth ; deep 
sobs came ; and for nearly an hour she lay without speaking, 
while the heavy icy pressure that withheld her misery from 
utterance w'as thus melting away. How precious these tears 
were to Maynard, who day after day had been shuddering at 
the continually recurring image of Tina with the dry, scorch- 
ing stare of insanity ! 

By degrees the sobs subsided, she began to breathe calmly, 
and lay quiet with her eyes shut. Patiently Maynard sat, 
not heeding the flight of the hours, not heeding the old clock 
that ticked loudly on the landing. But when it was nearly 
ten, Dorcas, impatiently anxious to know the result of Mr. 
Gilfil’s appearance, could not help stepping in on tiptoe. 
Without moving, he whispered in her ear to supply him with 


MR. GILFinS LOVE-STORY. 


179 

candles, see that the cow-boy had shaken down his mare, and 
go to bed — he would watch with Caterina — a great change 
had come over her. 

Before long, Tina's lips began to move. “ Maynard,” she 
whispered again. He leaned towards her, and she went on. 

“You know how wicked I am, then? You know what I 
meant to do with the dagger? ” 

“ Did you mean to kill yourself, Tina ? ” 

She shook her head slowly, and then was silent for a long 
while. At last, looking at him with solemn eyes, she whis- 
pered, “To kill hhn'' 

“ Tina, my loved one, you would never have done it. God 
saw your whole heart ; He knows you would never harm a 
living thing. He watches over His children, and will not let 
them do things they would pray with their whole hearts not 
to do. It was the angry thought of a moment, and He for- 
gives you.” 

She sank into silence again till it was nearly midnight. 
The weary enfeebled spirit seemed to be making its slow way 
with difficulty through the windings of thought ; and when 
she began to whisper again, it was in reply to Maynard’s 
words. 

“ But I had had such wicked feelings for a long while. I 
was so angry, and I hated Miss Assher so, and I didn’t care 
what came to anybody, because 1 was so miserable myself. 
I was full of bad passions. No one else was ever so wicked.” 

“Yes, Tina, many are just as wicked. I often have very 
wicked feelings, and am tempted to do wrong things ; but 
then my body is stronger than yours, and I can hide my feel- 
ings and resist them better. They do not master me so. You 
have seen the little birds when they are very young and just 
begin to fly, how all their feathers are ruffled when they are 
frightened or angry ; they have no power over themselves 
left, and might fall into a pit from mere fright. You were like 
one of those little birds. Your sorrow and suffering had 
taken such hold of you, you hardly knew what you did.” 

He would not speak long, lest he should tire her, and op- 
press her with too many thoughts. Long pauses seemed 
needful for her before she could concentrate her feelings in 
short words. 

“But when I meant to doit,” was the next thing she 
whispered, “ it was as bad as if I had done it.” 

“ No, my Tina,” answered Maynard slowly, waiting a little 
between each sentence ; “ we mean to do wicked things that 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


l8o 

we never could do, just as we mean to do good or clever 
things that we never could do. Our thoughts are often worse 
.coan we are, just as they are often better than we are. And 
*God sees us as we are altogether, not in separate feelings or 
actions, as our fellow-men see us. VVe are always doing each 
other injustice, and thinking better or worse of each other 
than we deserve, because we only hear and see separate words 
and actions. We don’t see each other’s whole nature. But 
God sees that you could not have committed that crime.” 

Caterina shook her head slowly, and was silent. After 
a while, 

“ 1 don’t know,” she said ; “ I seemed to see him coming 
towards me, just as he would really have looked, and I meant 
— I meant to do it.” 

“ But when you saw him — tell me how it was, Tina ? ” 

“ I saw him lying on the ground and thought he was ill. 
I don’t know how it was then ; I forgot everything. I knelt 
down and spoke to him, and — and he took no notice of 
me, and his eyes were fixed, and I began to think he was 
dead.” 

“ And you have never felt angry since ? ” 

“ Oh no, no ; it is I who have been more wicked than any 
one ; it is I who have been wrong all through.” 

“No, Tina; the fault has not all been yours; he was 
wrong ; he gave you provocation. All wrong makes wrong. 
When people use us ill, we can hardly help having ill feeling 
towards them. But that second wrong is more, excusable. I 
am more sinful than you, Tina ; I have often had very bad 
feelings towards Captain Wybrow ; and if he had provoked 
me as he did you, I should perhaps have done something 
more wicked.” 

“Oh, it was not so wrong in him ; he didn’t know how 
he hurt me. How was it likely he could love me as I loved 
him ? And how could he marry a poor little thing like me ? ” 

Maynard made no reply to this, and there was again a 
silence, till Tina said, 

“ Then I was so deceitful ; they didn’t know how wicked I 
was. Padroncello didn’t know ; his good little monkey he 
used to call me ; and if he had known, oh how naughty he 
would have thought me ! ” 

“ My Tina, we have all our secret sins ; and if we knew 
ourselves, we should not judge each other harshly. Sir Chris- 
topher himself has felt, since this trouble came upon him, that 
he has been too severe and obstinate. 


MR. GILFIVS LOVE-STORY. 


i8i 


In this way — in these broken confessions and answering 
words of comfort — the hours wore on, from the deep black 
night to the chill early twilight, and from early twilight to the 
first yellow streak of morning parting the purple cloud. Mr. 
Gilfil felt as if in the long hours of that night the bond that 
united his love forever and alone to Caterina had acquired 
fresh strength and sanctity. It is so with the human rela- 
tions that rest on the deep emotional sympathy of affection ; 
every new day and night of joy or sorrow is a new ground, a 
new consecration for the love that is nourished by memories 
as well as hopes — the love to which perpetual repetition is not 
a weariness but a want, and to which a separated joy is the 
beginning of pain. 

The cocks began to crow ; the gate swung ; there was a 
tramp of footsteps in the yard, and Mr. Gilfil heard Dorcas 
stirring. These sounds seemed to affect Caterina, for she 
looked anxiously at him and said, “ Maynard, are you going 
away ? ” 

“ No, I shall stay here at Callam until you are better, and 
then you will go away too.” 

“ Never to the Manor again, oh no ! I shall live poorly, 
and get my own bread.” 

“ Well, dearest, you shall do what you would like best. 
But I wish you could go to sleep now'. Try to rest quietly, 
and by and by you will perhaps sit up a little. God has kept 
you in life in spite of all this sorrow ; it will be sinful not to 
try and make the best of His gift. Dear Tina, you will try ; 
— and little Bessie brought you some crocuses once, you 
didn’t notice the poor little thing j but you will notice her 
when she comes again, will you not t ” 

“ I will try,” whispered Tina humbly, and then closed her 
eyes. 

By the time the sun was above the horizon, scattering the 
clouds, and shining with pleasant morning warmth through 
the little leaded window, Caterina was asleep. Maynard 
gently loosed the tiny hand, cheered Dorcas with the good 
news, and made his way to the village inn, with a thankful 
heart that Tina had been so far herself again. Evidently 
the sight of him had blended naturally with the memories in 
which her mind was absorbed, and she had been led on to 
an unburthening of herself that might be the beginning of 
a complete restoration. But her body was so enfeebled — 
her soul so bruised — that the utmost tenderness and care 
would be necessary. The next thing to be done was to 


i 82 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


send tidings to Sir Christoplier and Lady Cheverel ; then to 
write and summon his sister, under whose care he had de- 
termined to place Caterina. The Manor, even if she had 
been wishing to return thither, would, he knew, be the most 
undesirable home for her at present : every scene, every 
object there, was associated with still unallayed anguish. If 
she were domesticated for a time with his mild, gentle sister, 
who had a peaceful home and a prattling little boy. Tiny 
might attach herself anew to life, and recover, partly at least, 
the shock that had been given to her constitution. When 
he had written his letters and taken a hasty breakfast, he 
was soon in his saddle again, on his way to Sloppeter, 
where he would post them, and seek out a medical man, to 
whom he might confide the moral causes of Caterina’s en- 
feebled condition. 


CHAPTER XX. 

In less than a week from that time, Caterina was per- 
suaded to travel in a comfortable carriage, under the care of 
Mr. Gilfil and his sister, Mrs. Heron, whose soft blue eyes 
and mild manners were very soothing to the poor bruised 
child the more so as they had an air of sisterly equality 
which was quite new to her. Under Lady CheverePs unca- 
ressing authoritative good-will, Tina had always retained a 
certain constraint and awe ; and there was a sweetness before 
unknown in having a young and gentle woman, like an elder 
sister, bending over her caressingly, and speaking in low, 
loving tones. 

Maynard was almost angry with himself for feelincr hap- 
py while Tina’s mind and body were still trembling on the 
verge of irrecoverable decline ; but the new delight of actino^ 
as her guardian angel, of being with her every hour of the 
day, of devising everything for her comfort, of watching for 
a ray of returning interest in her eyes, was too absorbing to 
leave room for alarm or regret, 

On the third day the carriage drove up to the door of 
Foxholm Parsonage, where the Rev, Arthur Heron presented 
himself on the doorstep, eager to greet his returning Lucy, 


MR. GILFIVS L O VE-STOR Y. 


183 

and holding by the hand a broad-chested, tawny-haired boy 
of five, who was smacking a miniature hunting-whip with 
great vigor. 

Nowhere was there a lawn more smooth-shaven, walks 
better swept, or a porch more prettily festooned with creep- 
ers, than at Foxholm Parsonage, standing snugly sheltered 
by beeches and chestnuts half-way down the pretty green 
hill which was surmounted by the church, and overlooking 
a village that straggled at its ease among pastures and mead- 
ows, surrounded by wild hedgerows and broad shadowing 
trees, as yet unthreatened by improved methods of farming. 

Brightly the fire shone in the great parlor, and brightly in 
the little pink bed-room, which was to be Caterina’s, because 
it looked away from the churchyard, and on to a farm home- 
stead, with its little cluster of beehive ricks, and placid groups 
of cows, and cheerful matin sounds of healthy labor. Mrs. 
Heron, with the instinct of a delicate, impressible woman, 
had written to her husband to have this room prepared for 
Caterina. Contented speckled hens, industriously scratching 
for the rarely-found corn, may sometimes do more for a sick 
heart than a grove of nightingales ; there is something ir- 
resistibly calming in the unsentimental cheeriness of top- 
knotted pullets, unpetted sheep dogs, and patient cart-horses 
enjoying a drink of muddy water. 

In such a home as this parsonage, a nest of comfort, with- 
out any of the stateliness that would carry a suggestion of 
Cheverel Manor, Mr. Gilfil was not unreasonable in hoping 
that Caterina might gradually shake off the haunting vision 
of the past, and recover from the languor and feebleness 
which were the physical sign of that vision’s blighting pres- 
ence. The next thing to bed one was to arrange an ex- 
change of duties with Mr. Heron’s curate, that Maynard 
might be constantly near Caterina, and watch over her prog- 
ress. She seemed to like him to be with her, to look un- 
easily for his return ; and though she seldom spoke to him, 
she was most contented when he sat by her, and held her 
tiny hand in his large protecting grasp. But Oswald, 

Ozzy, the broad-chested boy, was perhaps her most beneficial 
companion. With something of his uncle’s person, he had 
inherited also his uncle’s early taste for a domestic menag- 
erie, and was very imperative in demanding Tina’s sympathy 
in the welfare of his guinea-pigs, squirrels, and dormice. 
With him she seemed now and then to have gleams of her 
childhood coming athwart the leaden clouds, and many hours 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


184 

of winter went by the more easily for being spent in Ozzy’s 
nursery. 

Mrs. Heron was not musical, and had no instrument j but 
one of Mr. Gilfil’s cares was to procure a harpsichord, and 
have it placed in the drawing-room, alw^ays open, in the hope 
that some day the spirit of music w’ould be reawakened in 
Caterina, and she would be attracted towards the instrument. 
But the winter was almost gone by and he had waited in vain. 
The utmost improvement in Tina had not gone beyond pas- 
siveness and acquiescence — a quiet grateful smile, compliance 
with Osw'ald’s whims, and increasing consciousness of what 
was being said and done around her. Sometimes she would 
take up a bit of woman’s work, but she seemed too languid to 
persevere in it ; her fingers soon dropped, and she relapsed 
into motionless reverie. 

At last — it was one of those bright days in the end of Feb- 
ruary, when the sun is shining with a promise of approaching 
spring. Maynard had been walking with her and Oswald 
round the garden to look at the snowdrops, and she w^as 
resting on the sofa after the w'alk. Ozzy, roaming about the 
room in quest of a forbidden pleasure, came to the harp- 
sich.ord, and struck the handle of his whip on a deep bass 
note. 

The vibration rushed through Caterina like an electric 
shock : it seemed as if at that instant a new soul were enter- 
ing into her, and filling her with a deeper, more significant 
life. She looked round, rose from the sofa, and walked to 
the harpsichord. In a moment her fingers were wandering 
with their old sweet method among the keys, and her soul 
w^as floating in its true familiar element of delicious sound, 
as the water-plant that lies withered and shrunken on the 
ground expands into freedom and beauty when once more 
bathed in its native flood. 

Maynard thanked God. An active power was reawak- 
ened, and must make a new epoch in Caterina’s recovery. 

Presently there were low liquid notes blending themselves 
with the harder tones of the instrument, and gradually the 
pure voice swelled into predominance. Little Ozzy stood in 
the middle of the room, with his mouth open and his legs 
very wide apart, struck with something like awe at this new 
power in “Tin-Tin,” as he called her, wdiom he had been ac- 
customed to think of as a playfellow not at all clever, and 
very much in need of his instruction on many subjects. A 


MR. GILFIVS LOVE-STORY. 


185 

genie soaring with broad wings out of his milk-jug would not 
have been more astonishing. 

Caterina was singing the very air from the Orfeo which we 
heard her singing so many months ago at the beginning of 
her sorrows. It was Che farb, Sir Christopher’s favorite, and 
its notes seemed to carry on their wings all the tenderest 
memories of her life, when Cheverel Manor was still an un- 
troubled home. The long happy days of childhood and girl- 
hood recovered all their rightful predominance over the short 
interval of sin and sorrow. 

She paused, and burst into tears — the first tears she had 
shed since she had been at Foxholm. Maynard could not 
help hurrying towards her, putting his arm round her, and 
leaning down to kiss her hair. She nestled to him, and put 
up her little mouth to be kissed. 

The delicate-tendrilled plant must have something to cling 
to. The soul that was born anew to music was born anew 
to love. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

On the 30th of May, 1790, a very pretty sight was seen by 
the villagers assembled near the door of Foxholm Church. 
The sun was bright upon the dewy grass, the air was alive 
with the murmur of bees and the thrilling of birds, the bushy 
blossoming chestnuts and the foamy flovering hedgerows 
seemed to be crowding round to learn why the church-bells 
were ringing so merrily, as Maynard Gilfil, his face bright 
with happiness, walked out of the old Gothic doorway with 
Tina on his arm. The little face was still pale, and there was 
a subdued melancholy in it, as of one who sups with friends 
for the last time, and has his .ear open for the signal that will 
call him away. But the tiny hand rested with the pressure 
of contented affection on Maynard’s arm, and the dark eyes 
met his downward glance with timid answering love. 

There was no train of bridesmaids ; only pretty Mrs. Heron 
leaning on the arm of a dark-haired young man hitherto un- 
known in Foxholm, and holding by the other hand little Ozzy, 
who exulted less in his new velvet cap and tunic, than in the 
notion that he was bridesman to Tin-Tin. 

Last of all came a couple whom the villagers eyed yet ' 


i86 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


more eagerly than the bride and bridegroom : a fine ola gen- 
tleman, who looked round with keen glances that cowed the 
conscious scapegraces among them, and a stately lady in 
blue-and-white silk robes, who must surely be like Queen 
Charlotte.| 

“ Well, that thee’s whut I call a pictur,” said old “ Mester 
Ford, a true Staffordshire patriarch, who leaned on a stick 
and held his head very much on one side, with the air of a 
man who had little hope of the present generation, but would 
at all events give it the benefit of his criticism. “ Th’ yoong 
men noo-a-deys, the’re poor squashy things — the’ looke will 
anoof, but the’ woon’t wear, the’ woon’t wear. Theer’s ne er 
un ’ll carry his ’ears like that Sir Cris’fer Chuvrell.” 

“ ’Ull bet ye two pots,” said another of the seniors, “ as 
that yoongster a-walkin’ wi’ th’ parson’s wife ’ll be Sir Cris’fer’s 
son — he favors him.” 

“ Nay, yae’ll bet that wi’ as big a fule as yersen ; hae’s 
noo son at all As I oonderstan’, hae’s the nevey as is t’heir 
th’ esteate. The coochman as puts oop at th’ White Hoss 
tellt me as theer war another nevey, a deal finer chap t’ looke 
at nor this un, as died in a fit, all on a soodden, an’ soo this 
here yoong un’s got upo’ th’ perch istid.” 

At the church gate Mr. Bates was standing in a new suit, 
ready to speak words of good omen as the bride and bride- 
groom approached. He had come all the way from Cheverel 
Manor on purpose to see Miss Tina happy once more, and 
would have been in a state of unmixed joy but for the inferi- 
ority of the wedding nosegays to what he could have fur- 
nished from the garden at the Manor. 

“ God A’mighty bless ye both, an’ send ye long laife an* 
happiness,” were the good gardener’s rather tremulous words. 

“Thank you, uncle Bates ; always remember Tina,” said 
the sweet low voice, w'hich fell on Mr. Bates’s ear for the last 
time. 

The wedding journey was to be a circuitous route to Shep- 
perton, where Mr. Gilfil had been for several months inducted 
as vicar. This small living had been given him through the 
interest of an old friend who had some claim on the gratitude 
of the Oldinport family ; and it was a satisfaction both to 
Maynard and Sir Christopher that a home to which he might 
take Caterina had thus readily presented itself at a distance 
from Cheverel Manor. For it had never yet been thought 
safe that she should revisit the scene of her sufferings, her 
health continuing too delicate to encourage the slightest risk 


MK. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY, 


187 

of painful excitement. In a year or two, perhaps by the time 
old Mr. Crichley, the rector of Cumbermoor, should have left 
a world of gout, and when Caterina would very likely be a 
happy mother, Maynard might safely take up his abode at 
Cumbermoor, and Tina would feel nothing but content at see- 
ing a new ‘‘ little black-eyed monkey” running up and down 
the gallery and gardens of the Manor. A mother dreads no 
memories — those shadow^s have all melted aw^ay in the dawn 
of baby's smile. 

In these hopes, and in the enjoyment of Tina’s nestling 
affection, Mr. Gilfil tasted a few months of perfect happiness 
She had come to lean entirely on his love, and to find life 
sweet for his sake. Her continual languor and W'ant of ac- 
tive interest w'as a natural consequence of bodily feebleness, 
and the prospect of her becoming a mother was a new ground 
for hoping the best. 

But the delicate plant had been too deeply bruised, and in 
the struggle to put forth a blossom it died. 

Tina died, and Maynard Gilfil’s love went with her into 
deep silence for evermore. 


EPILOGUE. 

This was Mr. Gilfil’s love story, which lay far back from 
the time when he sat, worn and gray, by his lonely fireside 
in Shepperton Vicarage. Rich brown locks, passionate love, 
and deep early sorrow, strangely different as they seem from 
the scanty white hairs, the apathetic content, and the unex- 
pectant quiescence of old age, are but part of the same life’s 
journey ; as the bright Italian plains, with the sweet Addio 
of their beckoning maidens, are part of the same day s travel 
that brings us to the other side of the mountain, between the 
sombre rocky walls and among the guttural voices of the 

Valais. . . . 

To those who were familiar only with the gray-haired Vicar, 
jogging leisurely along on his old chestnut cob, it would per- 
haps have been hard to believe that he had ever been the 
Maynard Gilfil who, with a heart full of passion and tender- 
ness, had urged his black Kitty to her swiftest gallop on the 
way ’to Callam, or that the old gentleman of caustic tongue 


i88 


SCENES OF CLEFICAL LIFE. 


and bucolic tastes, and sparing habits, had known all the 
deep secrets of devoted love, had struggled through its days 
and nights of anguish, and trembled under its unspeakable 
joys. And indeed the Mr. Gilfil of those late Shepperton 
days had more of the knots and ruggedness of poor human 
nature than there lay any clear hint of in the open-eyed, 
loving Maynard. But it is with men as with trees ; if you lop 
off their finest branches, into which they were pouring their 
young life juice, the wounds will be healed over with some 
rough boss, some odd excrescence ; and what might have been 
a grand tree expanding into liberal shade, is but a whimsical, 
misshapen trunk. Many an irritating fault, many an unlove- 
ly oddity, has come of a hard sorrow, w'hich has crushed and 
maimed the nature just w'hen it was expanding into plente- 
ous beauty; and the trivial erring life which we visit wuth our 
harsh blame, may be but as the unsteady motion of a man 
whose best limb are withered. 

And so the dear old Vicar, though he had something of 
the knotted, whimsical character of the poor lopped oak, had 
yet been sketched out by nature as a noble tree. The heart 
of him w'as sound, the grain was of the finest ; and in the 
gray-haired man who filled his pocket with sugarplums for 
the little children, whose most biting w'ords w^ere directed 
against the evil doing of the rich man, and who, with all his 
social pipes and slipshod talk, never sank below the highest 
level of his parishioners’ respect, there was the main trunk of 
the same brave, faithful, tender nature that had poured out 
the finest, freshest forces of its life-current in a first and only 
love — the love of Tina. 


JANET’S REPENTANCE 


CHAPTER I. 

“ No ! ” said lawyer Dempster, in a loud, rasping, ora- 
torical tone, struggling against chronic huskiness, “ as long as 
my Maker grants me power of voice and power of intellect, I 
will take every legal means to resist the introduction of demor- 
alizing, methodistical doctrine into this parish ; I will not su- 
pinely suffer an insult to be inflicted on our venerable pastor, 
who has given us sound instruction for half a century.” 

It was very warm everywhere that evening, but especially 
in the bar of the Red Lion at Milby, where Mr. Dempster 
was seated mixing his third glass of brandy-and-water. He 
was a tall and rather massive man, and the front half of his 
large surface was so well dredged with snuff, that the cat, 
having inadvertently come near him, had been seized with a 
severe fit of sneezing — an accident which, being cruelly mis- 
understood, had caused her to be driven contumeliously from 
the bar. Mr. Dempster habitually held his chin tucked in, 
and his head hanging forward, weighed down, perhaps, by a 
preponderant occiput and a bulging forehead, between which 
his closely-clipped coronal surface lay like a flat and new- 
mown table-land. The only other observable features were 
puffy cheeks and a protruding yet lipless mouth. Of his 
nose I can only say that it was snuffy ; and as Mr. Dempster 
was never caught in the act of looking at anything in par- 
ticular, it would have been difficult to swear to the color of 
his eyes. 

“ Well ! ril not stick at giving mjseli trouble to put 
down such hypocritical cant,” said Mr. Tomlinson, the rich 
miller. “ I know well enough what your Sunday evening 
lectures are good for — for wenches to meet their sweethearts, 
and brew mischief, ddiere’s work enough with the servant- 
maids as it is — such as I never heard the like of in my moth- 
er’s time, and it’s all along o’ your schooling and new'-fangled 


190 


SCEiYES OE CLERICAL LIFE, 


plans. Give me a servant as can nayther read nor write, I 
say, and doesn’t know the year o’ the Lord as she was born 
in. I should like to know what good those Sunday schools 
have done, now. Wh}", the boys used to go a bird’s-nesting 
of a Sunday morning ; and a capital thing too — ask any 
farmer ; and very pretty it was to see the strings o’ heggs 
hanging up in poor people’s houses. You’ll not see ’em 
nowhere now.” 

“ Pooh ! ” said Mr. Luke Byles, who piqued himself on his 
reading, and was in the habit of asking casual acquaintances 
if they knew anything of Hobbes; “it is right enough that 
the lower orders should be instructed. But this sectarianism 
within the Church ought to be put down. In point of fact, 
these Evangelicals are not Churchmen at all ; they’re no bet- 
ter than Presbyterians.” 

“ Presbyterians ? what are they ?” inquired Mr. Tomlinson, 
who often said his father had given him “ no eddication, and 
he didn’t care who knowed it ; he could buy up most o’ th’ 
eddicated men he’d ever come across.” 

“The Presbyterians,” said Mr. Dempster, in rather a 
louder tone than before, holding that every appeal for infor- 
mation must naturally be addressed to him, “ are a sect found- 
ed in the reign of Charles I., by a man named John Presbyter, 
who hatched all the brood of Dissenting vermine that crawl 
about in dirty alleys, and circumvent the lord of the manor 
in order to get a few yards of ground for their pigeon-house 
conventicles.” 

“ No, no, Dempster,” said Mr. Luke Byles, “ you’re out 
there. Presbyterianism is derived from the word presbyter, 
meaning an elder.” 

“ Don’t contradict me, sir ! ” stormed Dempster. “ I say 
the word presbyterian is derived from John Presbyter, a mis- 
erable fanatic who wore a suit of leather, and went about 
from town to village, and from village to hamlet, inoculating 
the vulgar with the asinine virus of Dissent.” 

“ Come, Byles, that seems a deal more likely,” said Mr. 
Tomlinson, in a conciliatory tone, apparently of opinion that 
history was a process of ingenious guessing. 

“ It’s not a question of likelihood ; it’s a known fact. I 
could fetch you my Encyclopaedia, and show it you this mo- 
ment.” 

“ I don’t care a straw, sir, either for you or your Encyclo- 
paedia,” said Mr. Dempster ; “ a farrago of false information, 
of which you picked up an imperfect copy in a cargo of waste 


JANET’S REPENTANCE. 


£91 

paper. Will you tell me^ sir, that I don’t know the origin of 
Presbyterianism 1 I, sir, a man known through the county, 
intrusted with the affairs of half a score of parishes ; while 
you, sir, are ignored by the very fleas that infest the miser- 
able ally in which you were bred.” 

A loud and general laugh, with You’d better let him 
alone, Byles;” “You’ll not get the better of Dempster in a 
hurry,” drowned the retort of the too well informed Mr, 
Byles, who, white with rage, rose and walked out of the bar. 

“ A meddlesome, upstart, Jacobinical fellow, gentlemen,” 
continued Mr. Dempster. “ I was determined to be rid of 
him. What does he mean by thrusting himself into our com- 
pany ? A man with about as much principle as he has prop- 
erty, which, to my knowledge, is considerably less than none. 
An insolvent atheist, gentlemen. A deistical prater, fit to sit 
in the chimney-corner of a pot-house, and make blasphemous 
comments on the one greasy newspaper fingered by beer- 
swilling tinkers. I will not suffer in my company a man 
who speaks lightly of religion. The signature of a fellow 
like Byles would be a blot on our protest.’ ’ 

“ And how do you get on with your signatures ? ” said 
Mr. Pilgrim, the doctor, who had presented his large top- 
booted person within the bar while Mr. Dempster was speak- 
ing. Mr. Pilgrim had just returned from one of his long 
day’s rounds among the farm-houses, in the course of which 
he had sat down to two hearty meals that might have been 
mistaken for dinners if he had not declared them to be 
“ snaps ; ” and as each snap had been followed by a few 
glasses of “ mixture,” containing a less liberal proportion of 
water than the articles he himself labelled with that broadly 
generic name, he was in that condition which his groom indi- 
cated with poetic ambiguity by saying that “ master had been 
in the sunshine.” Under these circumstances, after a hard 
day, in which he had really had no regular meal, it seemed a 
natural relaxation to step into the bar of the Red Lion, where, 
as it was Saturday evening, he should be sure to find Demp- 
ster, and hear the latest news about the protest against the 
evening lecture. 

“ Have you hooked Ben Landor yet ? ” he continued, as 
he took two chairs, one for his body, and the other for his, 
right leg. 

“ No,” said Mr. Budd, the churchwarden, shaking his 
head ; “ Ben Landor has a way of keeping himself neutral in 
everything, and he doesn’t like to oppose his father. Old 


192 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


Landor is a regular Tryanite. But we haven’t got your name 
yet, Pilgrim.” 

“ Tut, tut, Budd,” said Mr. Dempster, sarcastically, “ you 
don’t expect Pilgrim to sign ? He’s got a dozen Tryanite 
livers under his treatment. Nothing like cant and method- 
ism for producing a superfluity of bile.” 

“ Oh, I thought, as Pratt had declared himself a Tryanite, 
we should be sure to get Pilgrim on our side.” 

Mr. Pilgrim was not a man to sit quiet under a sarcasm, 
nature having endowed him with a considerable share of self- 
defensive wit. In his most sober moments he had an imped- 
iment in his speech, and as copious gin-and- water stimulated 
not the speech but the impediment, he had time to make his 
retort sufficiently bitter. 

“ Wh}^, to tell you the truth, Budd,” he spluttered, “ there’s 
a report all over the town that Deb ITaunter swears you shall 
take her with you as one of the delegates, and they say there’s 
to be a fine crowd at your door the morning you start, to see 
the row. Knowing your tenderness for that member of the 
fair sex, I thought you might find it impossible to deny her. 
I hang back a little from signing on that account, as Prender- 
gast might not take the protest well if Deb Traunter went 
with you.” 

Mr. Budd was a small, sleek-headed bachelor of five-and- 
forty, wffiose scandalous life had long furnished his more moral 
neighbors with an after-dinner joke. He had no other strik- 
ing characteristic, except that he was a currier of choleric 
temperament, so that you might wonder why he had been 
chosen as clergyman’s churchwarden, if I did not tell you that 
he had recently been elected through Mr. Dempster’s exer- 
tions, in order that his zeal against the threatened evening 
lecture might be backed by the dignity of office. 

“ Come, come. Pilgrim,” said Mr. Tomlinson, covering 
Mr. Budd’s retreat, “ you know you like to wear the crier’s 
coat, green o’ one side and red o’ the other. You’ve been to 
hear Tryan preach at Paddiford Common — you know you 
have.” 

“ To be sure I have ; and a capital sermon too. It’s a 
pity you were not there. It was addressed to those ‘ void of 
understanding.’ ” 

“ No, no, you’ll never catch me there,” returned Tomlin- 
son, not in the least stung ; “ he preaches without book, they 
say, just like a Dissenter. It must be a rambling sort of a 
concern.” 


iVE T'S REPENTANCE. 


193 


“ That’s not the worst,” said Mr. Dempster ; “ he preaches 
against good works ; says good works are not necessary to 
salvation — a sectarian, antinomian, anabaptist doctrine. Tell 
a man he is not to be saved by his works, and you open the 
flood-gates of all immorality. You see it in all these canting 
innovators ; they’re all bad ones by the sly ; smooth-faced, 
drawling, hypocritical fellows, who pretend ginger isn’t hot in 
their mouths, and cry down all innocent pleasures \ their 
hearts are all the blacker for their sanctimonious outsides. 
Haven’t we been warned against those who make clean the 
outside of the cup and the platter? There’s this Tryan, now, 
he goes about praying with old women, and singing with 
charity-children ; but what has he really got his eye on all 
the while? A domineering ambitious Jesuit, gentlemen; all 
he wants is to get his foot far enough into the parish to step 
into Crewe’s shoes ween the old gentleman dies. Depend 
upon it, whenever you see a man pretending to be better than 
his neighbors, that man has either some cunning end to serve, 
or his heart is rotten with spiritual pride.” 

As if to guarantee himself against this awful sin, Mr. 
Dempster seized his glass of brandy-and-water, and tossed off 
the contents with even greater rapidity than usual. 

“ Have you fixed on your third delegate yet? ” said Mr. 
Pilfifrim, whose taste was for detail rather than for disserta- 

o • 

tion. 

“That’s the man,” answered Dempster, pointing to Mr. 
Tomlinson. “ We start for Elmstoke Rectory on Tuesday 
morning ; so, if you mean to give us your signature, you 
must make up your mind pretty quickly, Pilgrim.” 

Mr. Pilgrim did not in the least mean it, so he only said, 
“ I shouldn’t wonder if Tryan turns out too many for you, 
after all. He’s got a well-oiled tongue of his own, and has 
perhaps talked over Prendergast into determination to stand 
by him.” 

“Ve-ry little fear of that,” said Dempster, in a confident 
tone. “ I’ll soon bring him round. Tryan has got his match. 
I’ve plenty of rods in pickle for Tryan.” 

At this moment Boots entered the bar, and put a letter 
into the lawyer’s hands, saying, “There’s Trower’s man just 
come into the yard wi’ a gig, sir, an’ he’s brought this here 
letter.” 

Mr. Dempster read the letter and said, “ Tell him to turn 
the gig — ril be with him in a minute. Here, run to Gruby’s 
and get this snuff-box filled — quick ! ” 

13 


194 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


« Trov/er’s worse, I suppose ; eh, Dempster? Wants you 
to alter his will, eh I ” said Mr. Pilgrim. 

“ Business — business — business — I don’t know exactly 
what,” answered the cautious Dempster, rising deliberately 
from his chair, thrusting on his low-crowned hat, and walking 
with a slow but not unsteady step out of the bar. 

“I never see Dempster’s equal ; if I did I’ll be shot,” said 
Mr. Tomlinson, looking after the lawyer admiringly. “Why, 
he’s drunk the best part of a bottle o’ brandy since here we’ve 
been sitting, and I’ll bet a guinea, when he’s got to Trower’s 
his head’ll be as clear as mine. He knows more about law 
when he’s drunk than all the rest on ’em when they’re sober.” 

“ Ay, and other things too, besides law,” said Mr. Budd. 
“ Did you notice how he took up Byles about the Presbyte- 
rians ? Bless your heart, he knows everything, Dempster does. 
He studied very hard when he was a young man.” 


CHAPTER II. 

The conversation just recorded is not, I am aware, re- 
markably refined or witty ; but if it had been, it could hardly 
have taken place in Milby when Mr. Dempster flourished there, 
and old Mr. Crewe, the curate, was yet alive. 

More than a quarter of a century has slipped by since 
then, and in the interval Milby has advanced at as rapid a 
pace as other market-towns in her Majesty’s dominions. By 
this time it has a handsome railway station, where the drowsy 
London traveller may look out by the brilliant gas-light and 
see perfectly sober papas and husbands alighting with their 
leather-bags after transacting their day’s business at the 
county-town. There is a resident rector, who appeals to the 
consciences of his hearers with all the immense advantages 
of a divine who keeps his own carriage ; the church is en- 
larged by at least five hundred sittings ; and the grammar- 
school, conducted on reformed principles, has its upper forms 
crowded with the genteel youth of Milby. The gentlemen 
there fall into no other excess at dinner-parties than the per- 
fectly well-bred and virtuous excess of stupidity ; and though 
the ladies are still said sometimes to take too much upon 
themselves, they are never known to take too much in any 


JANET’S TEPENTANCE. 


95 


Other way. The conversation is sometimes quite literary, 
for there is a flourishing book-club, and many of the younger 
ladies have carried their studies so far as to have forgotten a 
little German. In short, Milby is now a refined, moral, and 
enlightened town ; no more resembling the Milby of former 
days than the huge, long-skirted, drab great-coat that embar- 
rassed the ankles of our grandfathers resembled the light 
paletot in which we tread jauntily through the muddiest 
streets, or than the bottle-nosed Britons, rejoicing over a 
tankard in the old sign of the Two Travellers at Milby, re- 
sembled the severe-looking gentleman in straps and high 
collars whom a modern artist has represented as sipping the 
imaginary port of that well-known commercial house. 

But pray, reader, dismiss from your mind all the refined 
and fashionable ideas associated with this advanced state of 
things, and transport your imagination to a time when Milby 
had no gas-lights 3 when the mail drove up dusty or bespat- 
tered to the door of the Red Lion ; when old Mr. Crewe, the 
curate, in a brown Brutus wig, delivered inaudible sermons on 
a Sunday, and on a w^eek-day imparted the education of a 
gentleman — that is to say, an arduous inacquaintance with 
Latin through the medium of the Eton Grammar — to three 
pupils in the upper grammar-school. 

If you had passed through Milby on the coach at that 
time, you would have had no idea what important people lived 
there, and how very high a sense of rank was prevalent among 
them. It was a dingy-looking town, with a strong smell of 
tanning up one street and a great shaking of hand-looms up 
another ; and even in that focus of aristocracy. Friar’s Gate, 
the houses would not have seemed very imposing to the hasty 
and superficial glance of a passenger. You might still less 
have suspected that the figure in light fustian and large gray 
whiskers, leaning against the grocer’s door-post in High Street, 
was no less a person than Mr. Lowme, one of the most aris- 
tocratic men in Milby, said to have been “brought up a 
gentleman,” and to have had the gay habits accordant with 
that station, keeping his harriers and other expensive animals. 
He was now quite an elderly Lothario, reduced to the most 
economical sins ; the prominent form of his gayety being this 
of lounging at Mr. Gruby’s door, embarrassing the servant- 
maids who came for grocery, and talking scandal with the 
rare passers-by. Still, it was generally understood that Mr. 
Lowme belonged to the highest circle of Milby society ; his 
sons and daughters held up their heads very high indeed ; 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


196 

and in spite of his condescending way of chatting and drink- 
ing with inferior people, he would himself have scorned any 
closer identification with them. It must be admitted that he 
was of some service to the town in this station at Mr. Gruby’s 
door, for he and Mr. Landor’s Newfoundland dog, who 
stretched himself and gaped on the opposite causeway, took 
something from the lifeless air that belonged to the High 
street on every day except Saturday. 

Certainly, in spite of three assemblies and a charity ball 
in the. winter, the occasional advent of a ventriloquist, or a 
company of itinerant players, some of whom were very highly 
thought of in London, and the annual three days’ fair in June, 
Milby might be considered dull by people of a hypochon- 
driacal temperament ; and perhaps this was one reason why 
many of the middle-aged inhabitants, male and female, often 
found it impossible to keep up their spirits without a very 
abundant supply of stimulants. It is true there were several 
substantial men who had a reputation for exceptional sobriety, 
so that Milby habits were really not as bad as possible ; and 
no one is warranted in saying that old Mr. Crewe’s flock 
could not have been worse without any clergyman at all. 

The well-dressed parishioners generally were very regular 
church goers, and to the young ladies and gentlemen I am 
inclined to think that the Sunday morning service was the 
most exciting event of the week ; for few^ places could present 
a more brilliant show of out-door toilettes than might be seen 
issuing from Milby church at one o’clock. There were the 
four tall Miss Pittmans, old lawyer Pittman’s daughters, w'ith 
cannon curls surmounted by large hats, and long, drooping 
ostrich feathers of parrot green, d'here was Miss Phipps, 
wdth a crimson bonnet, very much tilted up behind, and a 
cockade of stiff feathers on the summit. There was Miss 
Landor, the belle of Milby, clad regally in purple and ermine, 
with a plume of feathers neither drooping nor erect, but 
maintaining a discreet medium. There were the three Miss 
Tomlinsons, who imitated Miss Landor, and also wore ermine 
and feathers ; but their beauty was considered of a coarse 
order, and their square forms were quite unsuited to the 
round tippet which fell wdth such remarkable grace on Miss 
Landor’s sloping shoulders. Looking at this plumed proces- 
sion of ladies, you would have formed rather a high idea of 
Milby wealth ; yet there was only one close carriage in the 
place, and that was old Mr. Landor’s, the banker, who, I think, 
never drove more than one horse. These sumptuously-attired 


JANET^S REPENTANCE. 


197 


ladies flashed past the vulgar eye in one-horse chaises, by no 
means of a superior build. 

The young gentlemen, too, were not without their little 
Sunday displays of costume, of a limited masculine kind. Mr. 
Eustace Landor, being nearly of age, had recently acquired a 
diamond ring, together with the habit of rubbing his hand 
through his hair. He was tall and dark, and thus had an 
advantage which Mr. Alfred Phipps, who, like his sister, was 
blond and stumpy, found it difficult to overtake, even by the 
severest attention to shirt-studs, and the particular shade of 
brown that was best relieved by gilt buttons. 

The respect for the Sabbath, manifested in this attention 
to costume, was unhappily counterbalanced by considerable 
levity of behavior during the pra)^ers and sermon j for the 
young ladies and gentlemen of Milby were of a very satirical 
turn. Miss Landor especially being considered remarkably 
clever, and a terrible quiz ; and the laige congregation neces- 
sarily containing many persons inferior in dress and demeanor 
to the distinguished aristocratic minority, divine service offered 
irresistible temptations to joking, through the medium of tele- 
graphic communications from the galleries to the aisles and 
back again. I remember blushing very much, and thinking 
Miss Landor was laughing at me, because I was appearing in 
coat-tails for the first time, when I saw her look down slyly 
towards where I sat, and then turn with a titter to handsome 
Mr. Bob Lowme, who had such beautiful whiskers meeting 
under his chin. But perhaps she was not thinking of me, 
after all ; for our pew was near the pulpit, and there was 
almost always something funny about old Mr. Crewe. His 
brown wig was hardly ever put on quite right, and he had a 
way of raising his voice for three or four words, and lowering 
it again to a mumble, so that we could scarcely make out a 
word he said ; though, as my mother observed, that was of 
no consequence in the prayer, since every one had a prayer- 
book ; and as for the sermon, she continued with some caus- 
ticity, we all of us heard jnore of it than we could remember 
when we got home. 

This youthful generation was not particularly literary. 
The young ladies who frizzed their hair, and gathered it all 
into large barricades in front of their heads, leaving their oc- 
cipital region exposed without ornament, as if that, being a 
back view, was of no consequence, dreamed as little that their 
daughters would read a selection of German poetry, and be 
able°to express an admiration for Schiller, as that they would 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


198 

turn all their hair the other way — that instead of threatening 
us with barricades in front, they would be most killing in re- 
treat, 

“ And, like the Parthian, wound us as they fly.” 

Those charming well-frizzed ladies spoke French indeed with 
considerable facility, unshackled by any timid regard to idiom, 
and were in the habit of conducting conversations in that 
language in the presence of their less instructed elders ; for 
according to the standard of those backward days, their ed- 
ucation had been very lavish, such young ladies as Miss Lan- 
dor. Miss Phipps, and Miss Pittmans, having been “finished’^ 
at distant and expensive schools. 

Old lawyer Pittman had once been a very important per- 
son indeed, having in his earlier days managed the affairs of 
several gentlemen in those parts, who had subsequently been 
obliged to sell everything and leave the country, in which 
crisis Mr. Pittman accomodatingly stepped in as a purchaser 
of their estates, taking on himself the risk and trouble of a 
more leisurely sale ; which, however, happened to turn out 
very much to his advantage. Such opportunities occur quite 
unexpectedly in the way of business. But I think Mr. Pitt- 
man must have been unlucky in his later speculations, for 
now, in his old age, he had not the reputation of being very 
rich ; and though he rode slowly to his office in Milby every 
morning on an old white hackney, he had to resign the chief 
profits, as well as the active business of the firm, to his young- 
er partner, Dempster. No one in Milby considered old Pitt- 
man a virtuous man, and the elder townspeople were not at 
all backward in narrating the least advantageous portions of 
his biography in a very round unvarnished manner. Yet I 
could never observe that they trusted him any the less, or 
liked him any the worse. Indeed, Pittman and Dempster 
were the popular lawyers of Milby and its neighborhood, and 
Mr. Benjamin Landor, whom no one had anything particular 
to say against, had a very meagre business in comparison. 
Hardly a landholder, hardly a farmer, hardly a parish within 
ten miles of Milby, whose affairs were not under the legal 
guardianship of Pittman and Dempster; and I think The 
clients were proud of their lawyers’ unscrupulousness, as the 
patrons of the fancy are proud of their champion’s “ condi- 
tion.” It was not, to be sure, the thing for ordinary life, but 
it was the thing to be bet on in a lawyer. Dempster’s talent 
in “bringing through” a client was a very common topic of 


JANET^S EEEEJVTAATE 


199 

conversation with the farmers, over an incidental glass of 
grog at the Red Lion. “ He’s a long-headed feller, Dempster ; 
why, it shows yer what a head-piece Dempster has, as he can 
drink a bottle o’ brandy at a sittin’, an’ yit see further 
through a stone wall when he’s done, than other folks’ll sec 
through a glass winder.” Even Mr. Jerome, chief member 
of the congregation at Salem Chapel, an elderly man of very 
strict life, was one of Dempster’s clients, and had quite an ex- 
ceptional indulgence for his attorney’s foibles, perhaps attrib- 
uting them to the inevitable incompatibility of law and 
gospel. 

The standard of m.orality at Milby, you perceive, was not 
inconveniently high in those good old" times, and an ingen- 
uous vice or two was what every man expected of his neigh- 
bor. Old Mr. Crewe, the curate, for example, was allowed to 
enjoy his avarice in comfort, without fear of sarcastic parish 
demagogues ; and his flock liked him all the better for having- 
scraped together a large fortune out of his school and curac;>"^ 
and the proceeds of the three thousand pounds he had with 
his little deaf wife. It was clear he must be a learned man, 
for he had once had a large private school in connection with 
the grammar-school, and had even numbered a young noble- 
man or two among his pupils. The fact that he read noth- 
ing at all now, and that his mind seemed absorbed in the 
commonest matters, was doubtless due to his having exhaust- 
ed the resources of erudition earlier in life. It is true he was 
not spoken of in terms of high respect, and old Crewe’s stingy 
housekeeping was a frequent subject of jesting ; but this was 
a good old-fashioned characteristic in a parson who had been 
part of Milby life for half a century : it was like the dents and 
disfigurements in an old family tankard, which no one would 
like to part with for a smart new piece of plate fresh from 
Birmingham. The parishioners saw no reason at all why it 
should Idc desirable to venerate the parson or any one else : 
they were much more comfortable to look down a little on 
their fellow-creatures. 

Even the Dissent in Milby was then of a lax and indiffer- 
ent kind. The doctrine of adult baptism, struggling under a 
heavy load of debt, had led off half its chapel area as a rib- 
bon-shop ; and Methodism was only to be detected, as you 
detect curious larvte, by diligent search in dirty corners. The 
Independents were the only Dissenters of whose existence 
Milby gentility was at all conscious, and it had a vague idea 
that the salient points of their creed were prayer without book, 


200 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


red brick, and hypocrisy. The Independent chapel, known as 
Salem, stood red and conspicuous, in a broad street ; more 
than one pew-holder kept a brass-bound gig ; and Mr. Jerome, 
a retired corn-factor, and the most eminent member of the 
congregation, was one of the richest men in the parish. But 
in s°pite of this apparent prosperity, together with the usual 
amount of extemporaneous preaching mitigated by furtive 
notes, Salem belied its name, and was not always the abode 
of peace. For some reason or other, it was unfortunate in 
the choice of its ministers. The Rev. Mr. Horner, elected 
with brilliant hopes, was discovered to be given to tippling 
and quarrelling with his wife ; the Rev. Mr. Rose’s doctrine 
was a little too “ high,” verging on antinomianism ; the Rev. 
Mr. Stickney’s gift as a preacher was found to be less striking 
on a more extended acquaintance ; and the Rev. Mr. Smith, 
a distinguished minister much sought after in the iroj;i districts, 
with a talent for poetry, became objectionable from an in- 
clination to exchange verses with the young ladies of his con- 
gregation. It was reasonably argued that such verses as Mr. 
Smith’s must take a long time for their composition, and the 
habit alluded to might intrench seriously on his pastoral 
duties. These reverend gentlemen, one and all, gave it as 
their opinion that the Salem church members were among 
the least enlightened of the Lord’s people, and that Milby 
was a low place, where they would have found it a severe lot 
to have their lines fall for any long period ; though to see the 
smart and crowded congregation assembled on occasion of 
the animal charity sermon, anvone might have supposed that 
the minister of Salem had rather a brilliant position in the 
ranks of Dissent. Several Church families used to attend on 
that occasion, lor Milby’,kin those uninstructed days, had not 
yet heard that the schismatic ministers of Salem were obviously 
typified by Korah, Dathan, and Abiram ; and many Church 
people there were of opinion that Dissent might be a weak- 
ness, but, after all, had no great harm in it. These lax Epis- 
copalians were, I believe, chiefly tradespeople, who held that, 
inasmuch as Congregationalism consumed candles, it ought 
to be supported, and accordingly made a point of presenting 
themselves at Salem for the afternoon charity sermon, with 
the expectation of being asked to hold a plate. Mr. Pilgrim, 
too, was always there with his half-sovereign : for as there 
was no Dissenting doctor in Milby, Mr. Pilgrim looked with 
great tolerance on all shades of religious opinion that did not 
include a belief in cures by miracle. 


jfAXnT'S REPENTANCE, 


201 


On this point he had the concurrence of Mr. Pratt, the 
only other medical man of the same standing- in Milby. 
Otherwise, it was remarkable how strongly these two clever 
men were contrasted. Pratt was middle-sized, insinuating, 
and silverey-voiced ; Pilgrim was tall, hea\7, rough-mannered, 
and spluttering. Both were considered to have great powers 
of conversation, but Pratt’s anecdotes were of. the fine old 
crusted quality to be procured only of Joe Miller ; Pilgrim’s 
had the full fruity flavor of the most recent scandal. Pratt 
elegantly referred all diseases to debility, and, with a proper 
contempt for symptomatic treatment, went to the root of the 
matter with port-wine and bark ; Pilgrim was persuaded that 
the evil principle in the human system was plethora, and he 
made war against it with cupping, blistering, and cathartics. 
They had both been long established in Milby, and as each 
had a sufficient practice, there was no very malignant rivalry 
between them ; on the contrary, they had that sort of friendly 
contempt for each other which is always conducive to a good 
understanding between professional men ; and when any new 
surgeon attempted, in an ill-advised hour, to settle him in the 
town, it was strikingly demonstrated how slight and trivial are 
theoretic differences compared with the broad basis of com- 
mon human feeling. There was the most perfect unanimity 
between Pratt and Pilgrim in the determination to drive 
away the obnoxious and too probably unqualified intruder as 
soon as possible. Whether the first wonderful cure he ef- 
fected was on a patient of Pratt’s or of Pilgrim’s, one was as 
ready as the other to pull the interloper by the nose, and both 
alike directed their remarkable powers of conversation tow- 
ards making the town too hot for him. But by their re- 
spective patients these two distinguished men were pitted 
against each other with great virulence. Mrs. Lowme could 
not conceal her amazement that Mrs. Phipps should trust her 
life in the hands of Pratt, who let her feed herself up to that 
degree, it was really shocking to hear how short her breatli 
was ; and Mrs. Phipps had no patience with Mrs. Lowme, 
living, as she did, on tea and broth, and looking as yellow as 
any crow- flower, and yet letting Pilgrim bleed and blister her 
and give her lowering medicine till her clothes hung on her 
like a scarecrow’s. On the whole, perhaps, Mr. Pilgrim’s rep- 
utation was the higher pitch, and when any lady under Mr. 
Pratt’s care was doing ill, she was half disposed to think that 
a little more “ activ^e treatment ” might suit her better. But 
without very definite provocation no one would take so serious 


202 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


a step as to part with the family doctor, for in those remote 
days there were few varieties of human hatred more formid- 
able than the medical. The doctor's estimate, even of a con- 
fiding patient, was apt to rise and fall with the entries in. the 
day-book ; and I have known Mr. Pilgrim discover the most 
unexpected virtues in a patient seized with a promising illness. 
At such times you might have been glad to perceive that there 
were some of Mr. Pilgrim’s fellow-creatures of whom he en- 
tertained a high opinion, and that he was liable to the amiable 
weakness of a too admiring estimate. A good inflammation 
fired his enthusiasm, and a lingering dropsy dissolved him 
into charity. Doubtless this crescendo of benevolence was 
partly due to feelings not at all represented by the entries in 
the day-book ; for in Mr. Pilgrim heart, loo, there was a la- 
tent store of tenderness and pity which flowed forth at the 
sight of suffering. Gradually, however, as his patients be- 
came convalescent, his view of their characters became more 
dispassionate ; when they could relish mutton-chops, he began 
to admit that they had foibles, and by the time they had 
swallowed their last dose of tonic, he was alive to their most 
inexcusable faults. After this, the thermometer of his regard 
rested at the moderate point of friendly backbiting, which 
sufficed to make him agreeable in his morning visits to the 
amiable and worthy person who were yet far from convales- 
cent. 

Pratt’s patients were profoundly uninteresting to Pilgrim ; 
their very diseases were despicable, and he would hardly 
have thought their bodies worth dissecting. But of all 
Pratt’s patients, Mr. Jerome was the one on whom Mr. Pil- 
grim heaped the most unmitigated contempt. In spite of 
the surgeon’s wise tolerance. Dissent became odious to him 
in the person of Mr. Jerome. Perhaps it was because that 
old gentleman, being rich, and having very large yearly bills 
for medical attendance on himself and his wife, nevertheless 
employed Pratt — neglected all the advantages of “active 
treatment,” and paid away his money without getting his sys- 
tem lowered. On any other ground it is hard to explain a 
feeling of hostility to Mr. Jerome, who was an excellent old 
gentleman, expressing a great deal of good-will towards his 
neighbors, not only in imperfect English, but in loans of 
money to the ostensibly rich, and in sacks of potatoes to the 
obviously poor. 

Assuredly Milby had that salt of goodness which keeps 
the world together, in greater abundance than was visible on 


JAiVET'S EEPEN7ANCE. 


203 


the surface ; innocent babes were born there, sweetening their 
parents’ hearts with simple joys ; men and women withering 
in disappointed worldliness, or bloated with sensual ease, had 
better moments in which they pressed the hand of suffering 
with sympathy, and were moved to deeds of neighborly kind- 
ness. In church and in chapel there were honest-hearted 
worshippers who strove to keep a conscience void of offence ] 
and even up the dimmest alleys you might have found here 
and there a Wesleyan to whom Methodism was the vehicle 
of peace on earth and good-will to men. To a superficial 
glance, Milby was nothing but dreary prose ; a dingy town, 
surrounded by flat fields, lopped elms, and sprawling manu- 
facturing villages, which crept on and on with their weaving- 
shops, till they threatened to graft themselves on the town. 
But the sweet spring came to Milby notwithstanding : the 
elm-tops were red with buds ; the churchyard was starred 
with daisies ; the lark showered his love-music on the flat- 
fields ; the rainbows hung over the dingy town, clothing the 
very roofs and chimneys in a strange transfiguring beauty. 
And so it was with the human life there, which at first seemed 
a dismal mixture of griping worldliness, vanity, ostrich feath- 
ers, and the fumes of brandy ; looking closer, you found 
some purity, gentleness, and unselfishness, as you may have 
observed a scented geranium giving forth its wholesome odors 
amidst blasphemy and gin in a noisy pot house. Little deaf 
Mrs. Crewe would often carry half her own spare dinner to 
the sick and hungry ; Miss Phipps, with her cockade of red 
feathers, had a filial heart, and lighted her father’s pipe with 
a pleasant smile ; and there were gray-haired men in drab 
gaiters, not at all noticeable as you passed them in the street, 
whose integrity had been the basis of their rich neighbor’s 
wealth. 

Such as the place was, the people there were entirely con- 
tented with it. They fancied life must be but a dull affair for 
that large portion of mankind who were necessarily shut out 
from an acquaintance with Milby families, and that it must be 
an advantage to London and Liverpool that Milby gentlemen 
occasionally visited those places on business. But the in- 
habitants became more intensely conscious of the value they 
set upon all their advantages, when innovation made its ap- 
pearance in the person of the Rev. Mr. Tryan, the new curate, 
at the chapel-of-ease on Paddiford Common. It was soon 
notorious in Milby that Mr. Tryan held peculiar opinions ; 
that he preached extempore ; that he was founding a religious 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


204 

lending-library in his remote corner of the parish ; that he eX' 
pounded the Scriptures in cottages ; and that his preaching 
was attracting the Dissenters, and filling the very aisles of his 
church. The rumor sprang up that Evangelicalism had in- 
vaded Milby parish — a murrain or blight all the more terrible, 
because its nature was but dimly conjectured. Perhaps Milby 
was one of the last spots to be reached by the wave of a new 
movement ; and it was only now, when the tide was just on 
the turn, that the limpets there got a sprinkling. Mr. Tryan 
was the first Evangelical clergyman who had risen above the 
Milby horizon : hitherto that obnoxious adjective had been 
unknown to the townspeople of any gentility ; and there were 
even many Dissenters who considered “ evangelical ” simply 
a sort of baptismal name to the magazine which circulated 
among the congregation of Salem Chapel. But now, at length, 
the disease had been imported, when the parishioners were 
expecting it as little as the innocent Red Indians expected 
small-pox. As long as Mr. Tryan’s hearers were confined to 
Paddiford Common — which, by the bye, was hardly recog- 
nizable as a common at all, but was a dismal district where 
you heard the rattle of the handloom, and breathed the smoke 
of coal-pits — the “ canting parson ” could be treated as a joke. 
Not so when a number of single ladies in the town appeared 
to be infected, and even one or two men of substantial prop- 
erty, with old Mr. Landor, the banker, at their head, seemed 
to be “giving in” to the new movement — when Mr. Tryan 
was known to be well received in several good houses, where 
he was in the habit of finishing the evening with exhortation 
and prayer. Evangelicalism was no longer a nuisance exist- 
ing merely in by-corners, w^iich any w’ell-clad person could 
avoid ; it was invading the very drawing-rooms, mingling itself 
with the comfortable fumes of port-w'ine and brandy, threaten- 
ing to deaden with its murky breath all the splendor of the 
ostrich feathers, and to stifle Milby ingenuousness, not pre- 
tending to be better than its neighbors, with a cloud of cant 
and lugubrious hypocrisy. The alarm reached its climax 
when it was reported that Mr. Tryan w^as endeavoring to 
obtain authority from Mr. Prendergast, the non-resident 
rector, to establish a Sunday evening lecture in the parish 
church, on the ground that old Mr. Crewe did not preach the 
Gospel. 

It now first appeared how surprisingly high a value Milby 
in general set on the ministrations of Mr. Crew^e ; how con- 
vinced it was that Mr. Crewe was the model of a parish priest, 


JANET^S REPENTANCE, 


205 


and his sermons the soundest and most edifying that had ever 
remained unheard by a church-going population. All allusions 
to his brown wig were suppressed, and by a rhetorical figure 
his name was associated with venerable gray hairs ; the at- 
tempted intrusion of Mr. Tryan was an insult to a man deep 
in years and learning ; moreover, it was an insolent effort to 
thrust himself forward in a parish where he was clearly dis- 
tasteful to the superior portion of its inhabitants. The town 
was divided into two zealous parties, the Tryanites and anti- 
Tryanites ; and by the exertions of the eloquent Dempster, 
the anti-Tryanite virulence was soon developed into an or- 
ganized opposition. A protest against the meditated evening 
lecture was framed by that orthodox attorney, and, after be- 
ing numerously signed, was to be carried to Mr. Prendergast 
by three delegates representing the intellect, morality, and 
wealth of Milby. The intellect, you perceive, was to be per- 
sonified in Mr. Dempster, the morality in Mr. Budd, and the 
wealth in Mr. Tomlinson ; and the distinguished triad was to 
set out on its great mission, as we have seen, on the third day 
from that warm Saturday evening when the conversation re- 
corded in the previous chapter took place in the bar of the 
Red Lion. 


CHAPTER III. 

It was quite as warm on the following Thursday evening, 
when Mr. Dempster and his colleagues were to return from 
their mission to Elmstoke Rectory ; but it was much pleas- 
anter in Mrs. Linnet’s parlor than in the bar of the Red Lion. 
Through the open window came the scent of mignonnette and 
honevsuckle ; the grass-plot in front of the house was shaded 
by a little plantation of Gueldres roses, syringas, and labur- 
nums ; the noise of looms and carts and unmelodious voices 
reached the ear simply as an agreeable murmur, for Mrs. Lin- 
net’s house was situated quite on the outskirts of Paddiford 
Common ; and the only sound likely to disturb the serenity 
of the feminine party assembled there, was the occasional 
buzz of intrusive wasps, apparently mistaking each lady’s 
head for a sugar-basin. No sugar-basin was visible in Mrs. 
Linnet’s parlor, for the time of tea was not yet, and the round 
table was littered with books which the ladies were covering 


2o6 


SCENES OF CLEEICAL LIFE. 


wi1h black canvas as a reinforcement of the new Paddiford 
Lending Library. Miss Linnet, whose manuscript was the 
■ neatest type of zigzag, was seated at a small table apart, writ- 
ing on green paper tickets, which were to be pasted on the 
co'v^ers. Miss Linnet had other accomplishments besides that 
of a neat manuscript, and an index to some of them might 
be found in the ornaments of the room. She had always com- 
bined a love of serious and poetical reading with her skill in 
fancy-work, and the neatly-bound copies of Dryden’s “Virgil,’’ 
Hannah More’s “ Sacred Dramas,” Falconer’s “ Shipwreck,” 
Mason “On Self-Knowledge,” “ Rasselas,” and Burke “On 
the Sublime and Beautiful,” which were the chief ornaments of 
the bookcase, were all inscribed with her name, and had been 
bought with her pocket-money when she was in her teens. It 
must have been at least fifteen years since the latest of those 
purchases, but Miss Linnet’s skill in fancy-work appeared to 
have gone through more numerous phases than her literary 
taste ; for the japanned boxes, the alum and sealing-wax bas- 
kets, the fan-dolls, the “ transferred ” landscapes on the fire- 
screens, and the recent bouquets of wax-flowers, showed a 
disparity in freshness which made them referable to widely 
different periods. Wax-flowers presuppose delicate fingers 
and robust patience, but there are still many points of mind 
and person which they leave vague and problematic ; so I 
must tell you that Miss Linnet had dark ringlets, a sallow 
complexion, and an amiable disposition. As to her features, 
there was not much to criticise in them, for she had little 
nose, less lip, and no eyebrow: and as to her intellect, her 
friend Mrs. Pettifer often said, “ She didn’t know a more sen- 
sible person to talk to than Mary Linnet. There was no one 
she liked better to come and take a quiet cup of tea with her, 
and read a little of Klopstock’s ‘ Messiah.’ Mary Linnet had 
often told her a great deal of her mind when they were sitting 
together ; she said there were many things to bear in every 
condition of life, and nothing should induce her to marry 
without a prospect of happiness. Once, when Mrs. Pettifer 
admired her wax-flowers, she said, ‘Ah, Mrs. Pettifer, 
think of the beauties of nature!’ She always spoke very 
prettily, did Mary Linnet ; very different, indeed, from Re- 
becca.” 

Miss Rebecca Linnet, indeed, was not a general favorite. 
While most people thought it a pity that a sensible woman 
like Mary had not found a good husband — and even her fe- 
male friends said nothing more ill-natured of her than that 


/A NET'S REPENTANCE. 


207 

her face was like a piece of putty with two Scotch pebbles 
stuck in it — Rebecca was always spoken of sarcastically, and 
it was a customary kind of banter with young ladies to recom- 
mend her as a wife to any gentleman they happened to be 
flirting with — her fat, her finery, and her thick ankles suffi- 
cing to give piquancy 10 the joke, notwithstanding the absence 
of novelty. Miss Rebecca, however, possessed the accom- 
plishment of music, and her singing of “ Oh no, we never 
mention her,” and “ The Soldier’s Tear,” was so desirable an 
accession to the pleasures of a tea-party that no one cared to 
offend her, especially as Rebecca had a high spirit of her own, 
and, in spite of her expansively rounded contour, had a par- 
ticularly sharp tongue. Her reading had been more exten- 
sive than her sister’s, embracing most of the fiction in Mr. 
Procter’s circulating library, and nothing but an acquaintance 
with the course of her studies could afford a clue to the rapid 
transitions in her dress, which were suggested by the style of 
beauty, whether sentimental, sprightly, or severe, possessed 
by the heroine of the three volumes actually in perusal. A 
piece of lace, which drooped round the edge of her white 
bonnet one week, had been rejected by the next ; and her 
cheeks, which, on Whitsunday, loomed through a Turnerian 
haze of network, were, on Trinity Sunday, seen reposing in 
distinct red outline on her shelving bust, like the sun on a fog- 
bank. The black velvet, meeting with a crystal clasp, which 
one evening encircled her head, had on another descended to 
her neck, and on a third to her wrist, suggesting to an active 
imagination either a magical contraction of the ornament, or 
a fearful ratio of expansion in Miss Rebecca’s person. With 
this constant application of art to dress, she could have had 
little time for fancy-work, even if she had not been destitute 
of her sister’s taste for that delightful and truly feminine oc- 
cupation. And here, at least, you perceive the justice of the 
Milby opinion as to the relative suitability of the two Miss 
Linnets for matrimony. When a man is happy enough to win 
the affections of a sweet girl, who can soothe his cares with 
crochet, and respond to all his most cherished ideas with bead- 
ed urn-rugs and chair-covers in German wool, he has, at least, 
a guaranty of domestic comfort, whatever trials may await him 
out of doors. What a resource it is under fatigue and irrita- 
tion to have your drawing-room well supplied with small mats, 
which would always be ready if you ever wanted to set any 
thing on them. And what styptic for a bleeding heart can 
equal copious squares crochet^ which are useful for slipping 


2o8 


SCEiYES OF CLERICAL LIFE 


down the moment you touch them ? How our fathers managed 
without crochet is the wonder ; but I believe some small and 
feeble substitute existed in their time under the name of 
“ tatting.” Rebecca Linnet, however, had neglected tatting 
as well as other forms of fancy-work. At school, to be sure, 
she had spent a great deal of time i.i acquiring flower-painting, 
according to the ingenious method then fashionable, of apply- 
ing the shapes of leaves and flowers cut out in cardboard, and 
scrubbing a brush over the surface thus conveniently marked 
out ; but even the spill-cases and hand-screens, which were 
her last half-year’s performance in that way, were not con- 
sidered eminently successful, and had long been consigned to 
the retirement of the best bed-room. Thus there was a good 
deal of family unlikeness between Rebecca and her sister, and 
I am afraid there was also a little family dislike : but Mary’s 
disapproval had usually been kept imprisoned behind her thin 
lips, for Rebecca was not only of a headstrong disposition, 
but was her mother’s pet ; the old lady being herself stout, 
and preferring a more showy style of cap than she could pre- 
vail on her daughter Mary to make up for her. 

But I have been describing Miss Rebecca as she was in for- 
mer days only, for her appearance this evening, as she sits past- 
ing on the green tickets, is in striking contrast with what it was 
three or four months ago. Her plain gray gingham dress and 
plain white collar could never have belonged to her wardrobe 
before that date ; and though she is not reduced in size, and 
her brown hair will do nothing but hang in crisp ringlets down 
her large cheeks, there is a change in her air and expression 
w'hich seems to shed a softened light over her person, and 
make her look like a pony in the shade, instead of the same 
flower flaunting in a parterre in the hot sunlight. 

No one could deny that Evangelicalism had wrought a 
change for the better in Rebecca Linnet’s person — not even 
Miss Pratt, the thin stiff lady in spectacles, seated opposite to 
her, w^ho alw*ays had a peculiar repulsion for “ females with a 
gross habit of body.” Miss Pratt was an old maid \ but that 
is a no more definite description than if I had said she w^as 
in the autumn of life. Was it autumn when the orchards are 
fragrant with apples, or autumn when the oaks are brown, or 
autumn when the last yellow leaves are fluttering in the chill 
breeze t The young ladies in Milby would have told you 
that the Miss Linnets w^ere old maids ; but the Miss Linnets 
were to Miss Pratt what the apple-scented September is to 
the bare, nipping days of late November. The Miss Linnets 


JANET'S REPENTANCE. 


209 

were in that temperate zone of old maidism, when a woman 
will not say but that if a man of suitable years and character 
were to offer himself, she might be induced to tread the re- 
mainder of life’s vale in company with him ; Miss Pratt was 
in that arctic region where a woman is confident that at no 
time of life would she have consented to give up her liberty, 
and that she has never seen the man whom she would engage 
to honor and obey. If the Miss Linnets were old ma-ids, they 
were old maids with natural ringlets and embonpoint, not to- 
say obesity ; Miss Pratt was an old maid with a cap, a braid- 
ed “ front,” a backbone and appendages. Miss Pratt was the 
one blue-stocking of Milby, possessing, she said, no less than 
five hundred volumes, competent, as her brother the doctor 
often observed, to conduct a conversation on any topic what- 
ever, and occasionally dabbling a little in authorship, though 
it was understood that she had never put forth the full powers 
of her mind in print. Her “ Letters to a Young Man on his 
Entrance into Life,” and “ De Courcy, or the Rash Promise, a 
Tale for Youth,” were mere trifles which she had been induced 
to publish because they were calculated for popular utility, 
but they were nothing to what she had for years had by her ir\ 
manuscript. Her latest production had been Six Stanzas, ad- 
dressed to the Rev. Edgar Tryan, printed on glazed paper 
with a neat border, and beginning, “ Forward, young wrestler 
for the truth ! ” 

Miss Pratt having kept her brother’s house during his long 
widowhood, his daughter, Miss Eliza, had had the advantage 
of being educated by her aunt, and thus of imbibing a very 
strong antipathy to all that remarkable woman’s tastev and 
opinions. The silent, handsome girl of two-and-twenty, who is 
covering the “ Memoirs of Felix Neff,” is Miss Eliza Pratt \ 
and the smll elderly in dowdy clothing, who is also working 
diligently, is Mrs. Pettifer, a superior-minded widow, much 
valued in Milby, being such a very respectable person to have in 
the house in case of illness, and of quite too good a family to 
receive any money-payment — you could always send her garden- 
stuff that would make her ample amends. Miss Pratt has 
enough to do in commenting on the heap of volumes before 
her, feeling it a responsibility entailed on her by her great 
powers of mind to leave nothing without the advantage of her 
opinion. Whatever was good must be sprinkled with the 
chrism of her approval ; whatever was evil must be blighted 
»by her condemnation. 

“ Upon my word,” she said, in a deliberate high voice, a.s 




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


if she were dictating to an amanuensis, ‘Mt is a most admira- 
ble selection of works for popular reading, this that ouir av:- 
cellent Mr. Tryan has made. I do not knov/ whether, if tne 
task had been confided to me, I could have made a selection 
combining in a higher degree religious instruction and edifi- 
cation with a due admixture of the purer species of amuse- 
ment. This story of ‘ Father Clement ’ is a library in it- 
self on the errors of Romanism. I have ever considered fic- 
tion a suitable form for conveying moral and religious instruc- 
tion, as I have shown in my little work ‘ De Courcy,’ which, 
as a very clever writer in the ‘ Crompton Argus ’ said at the 
time of its appearance, is the light vehicle of a weighty 
moral.” 

“ One ’ud think,” said Mrs. Linnet, who also had her spec- 
tacles on, but chiefly for the purpose of seeing what the 
others were doing, “there didn’t want much to drive people 
away from a religion as makes ’em walk barefoot over stone 
floors, like that girl in ‘ Father Clement ’ — sending the blood 
up to the head frightful. Anybody might see that was an 
unnat’ral creed.” 

“ Yes,” said Miss Pratt, “but asceticism is not the root of 
the error, as Mr. Tryan was telling us the other evening — it 
is the denial of the great doctrine of justification by faith. 
Much as I had reflected on all subjects in the course of my 
life, I am indebted to Mr. Tryan for opening my eyes to the 
full importance of that cardinal doctrine of the Reformation. 
From a child I had a deep sense of religion, but in my early 
days the Gospel lii^ht was obscured in the English Church, 
notwithstanding the possession of our incomparable liturgy, 
than which I know no human composition more faultless and 
sublime. As I tell Eliza, I was not blest as she is at the age 
of two-and-twenty, in knowing a clergyman who unites all 
that.is great and admirable in intellect with the highest spir- 
itual gifts. I am no contemptible judge of a man’s acquire- 
ments, and I assure you I have tested Mr. Tryan’s by ques- 
tions which are a pretty severe touchstone. It is true, I some- 
times carry him a little beyond the depth of the other listen- 
ers. Profound learning,” continued Miss Pratt, shutting her 
spectacles, and tapping them on the book before her, “ has 
not many to estimate it in Milby.” 

“ Miss Pratt,” said Rebecca, “ will you please give me 
‘Scott’s Force of Truth?’ There — that small book lying 
against the ‘ Life of Legh Richmond.’ ” 

“ I'hat’s a book I’m very fond of — the ‘ Life of Legh Rich* 


jAA'Ii'r^ REPENTANCE. 


2II 


mond,’ ” said Mrs. Linnet. “ He found out all about that 
woman at I'utbury as pretended to live without eating. Stuff 
and nonsense ! ” 

Mrs. Linnet had become a reader of religious books since 
Mr. I'ryan’s advent, and as she was in the habit of confining 
her perusal to the purely secular portions, which bore a very 
small proportion to the whole, she could make rapid progress 
through a large number of volumes. On taking up the biog- 
raphy of a celebrated preacher she immediately turned to the 
end to see what disease he died of ; and if his legs swelled, 
as her own occasionally did, she felt a stronger interest in 
ascertaining any earlier facts in the history of the dropsical 
divine — whether he had ever fallen off a stage-coach, whether 
he had married more than one wife, and, in general, any ad- 
ventures or repartees recorded of him previous to the epoch 
of his conversion. She then glanced over the letters and 
diary, and wherever there was a predominance of Zion, the 
River of Life, and notes of exclamation, she turned over to 
the next page ; but any passage in which she saw such prom- 
ising nouns as “ small-pox,” “ pony,” or “ boots and shoes,” 
at once arrested her. 

“ It is half past six now,” said Miss Linnet, looking at her 
watch as the servant appeared with the tea-tray. “ I sup 
pose the delegates are come back by this time. If Mr. 
Try an had not so kindly promised to call and let us know, I 
should hardly rest without walking to Milby myself to know 
what answer they have brought back. It is a great privilege 
for us, Mr. Tryan living at Mrs. Wagstaff’s, for he is often 
able to take us on his way backward and forward into the 

wonder if there’s another man in the world who has 
been brought up as Mr. Tryan has, that would choose to live 
in those small close rooms on the common, among heaps of 
dirty cottages, for the sake of being near the poor people, ’ 
said Mrs. Pettifer. “ I’m afraid he hurts his health by it ; he 

looks to me far from strong.” , 

“ Ah,” said Miss Pratt, “ I understand he is of a highly re- 
spectable family indeed, in Huntingdonshire. I heard him 
myself speak of his father’s carriage— quite incidentally, you 
know— and Eliza tells me what yery fine cambric handker- 
chiefs he uses. My eyes are not good enough to see such 
things but I know what breeding is as well as most people, 
and it’is easy to see that Mr. Tryau is quite comme il/aw, to 
use a French expression.” 


212 


SCENES OF Cr.ER/CAL LIFE, 


“ I should like to tell him better nor use line cambric i’ 
this place, where there’s such washing ; it’s a shame to be 
seen,” said Mrs. Linnet ; “ he’ll get ’em tore to pieces. Good 
lawn ’ud be far better. I saw what a color his linen looked 
at the sacrament last Sunday. Mary’s making him a black 
silk case to hold his bands, but I told her she’d more need 
wash ’em for him.” 

“ Oh, mother !” said Rebecca, with solemn severity, “ pray 
don’t think of pocket-handkerchiefs and linen, when we are 
talking of such a man. And at this moment, too, when he 
is perhaps having to bear a heavy blow. We don’t know but 
wickedness may have triumphed, and Mr. Prendergast may 
have consented to forbid the lecture. There have been dis- 
pensations quite as mysterious, and Satan is evidently put- 
ting forth all his strength to resist the entrance of the Gos- 
pel into Milby Church.” 

“You niver spoke a truer word than that, my dear,” said 
Mrs. Linnet, who accepted all religious phrases, but was ex- 
tremely rationalistic in her interpretation ; “ for if iver Old 
Harry appeared in a human form, it’s that Dempster. It was 
all through him as we got cheated out o’ Pye’s Croft, making 
out as the title wasn’t good. Such lawyer’s villany ! As if 
paying good money wasn’t title enough to anything. If your 
father as is dead and gone had been worthy to know it ! 
But he’ll have a fall some day, Dempster will. Mark my 
words.” 

“ Ah, out of his carriage, you mean,” said Miss Pratt, 
who, in the movement occasioned by the clearing of the table, 
had lost the first part of Mrs. Linnet’s speech. “It certainly 
is alarming to see him driving home from Rotherby flogging 
his galloping horse like a madman. My brother has often 
said he expected every Thursday evening to be called in to 
set some of Dempster’s bones ; but I suppose he may drop 
that expectation now, for we are given to understand from 
^ood authority that he has forbidden his wife to call my 
brother in again either to herself or her mother. He swears 
no Tryanite doctor shall attend his family. I have reason to 
believe that Pilgrim was called in to Mrs. Dempster’s mother 
the other day.” 

“ Poor Mrs. Raynor ! she’s glad to do anything for the 
sake of peace and quietness,” said Mrs. Pettifer ; “but it’s no 
trifle at her time of life to part with a doctor who knows her 
constitution.” 

“ What trouble that poor woman has to bear in her cl i 


fANET^S REPENTANCE. 


213 

said Mary Linnet, “to see her daughter leading such 
a life ' — an only daughter, too, that she doats on.” 

Yes, indeed,” said Miss Pratt. “ We, of course, know 
J7\oie about it than most people, my brother having attended 
ttie family so many years. For my part, I never thought well 
of the marriage ; and I endeavored to dissuade my brother 
when Mrs. Raynor asked him to give Janet away at the wed- 
ding. ‘If you will take my advice, Richard,’ I said, ‘you 
will have nothing to do with that marriage.’ And he has 
seen the justice of my opinion since. Mrs. Raynor herself 
was against the connection at first ; but she always spoiled 
Janet ; and I fear, too, she was won over by a foolish pride 
in having her daughter marry a professional man. I fear it 
was so. No one but myself, I think, foresaw the extent of 
the evil.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Pettifer, “Janet had nothing to look 
to but being a governess ; and it was hard for Mrs. Raynor 
to have to work at millinering — a woman well brought up, 
and her husband a man who held his head as high as any 
man in Thurston. And it isn’t everybody that sees every- 
thing fifteen years beforehand. Robert Dempster was the 
cleverest man in Milby ; and there weren’t many young men 
fit to talk to Janet.” 

“It is a thousand pities,” said Miss Pratt, choosing to 
ignore Mrs. Pettifer’s slight sarcasm, “ for 1 certainly did 
consider Janet Raynor the most promising young woman of 
my acquaintance ; — a little too much lifted up, perhaps, by 
her superior education, and too much given to satire, but 
able to express herself very well indeed about any book I 
recommended to her perusal. There is no young woman in 
Milby now who can be compared v/ith what Janet was when 
she was married, either in mind or person. I consider Miss 
Landor far, far below her. Indeed, I cannot say much for 
the mental superiority of the young ladies in our first families. 
They are superficial — very superficial.” 

“ She made the handsomest bride that ever came out of 
Milby Church, too,” said Mrs. Pettifer. “ Such a very fine 
figure ! and it showed off her white poplin so well. And 
what a pretty smile Janet always had ! Poor thing, she keeps 
that now for all her old friends. I never see her but she has 
something pretty to say to me — living in the same street, you 
know, I can’t help seeing her often, though I’ve never been 
to the house since Dempster broke out on me in one of his 
drunken fits. She comes to me sometimes, poor thing, look- 


214 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


in^ so strange, anybody passing her in the street may see 
plain enough what’s the matter ; but she’s always got some 
little good-natured plan in her head, for all that. Only last 
night when I met her, I saw five yards off she wasn’t fit to be 
out ; but she had a basin in her hand, full of something she 
was carrying to Sally Martin, the deformed girl that’s in a 
consumption.” 

“ But she is just as bitter against Mr. Tryan as her husband 
is, I understand,” said Rebecca. “ Her heart is very much 
set against the truth, for I understand she bought Mr. Tr}^an’s 
sermons oh purpose to ridicule them to Mrs. Crewe.” 

“ Well, poor thing,” said Mrs. Pettifer, “ you know she 
stands up for everything her husband says and does. She 
never will admit to anybody that he’s not a good husband.” 

“ That is her pride,” said Miss Pratt. “ She married him 
in opposition to the advice of her best friends, and now she is 
not willing to admit that she was wrong. Why, even to myi 
brother — and a medical attendant, you know, can hardly fail to 
be acquainted with family secrets — she has always pretended 
to have the highest respect for her husband’s qualities. 
Poor Mrs. Raynor, however, is well aware that every one 
knows the real state of things. Latterly, she has not even 
avoided the subject with me. The very last time I called on 
her she said, ‘ Have you been to see my poor daughter ? ’ and 
burst into tears.” 

“Pride or no pride,” said Mrs. Pettifer, “I shall aiwa3^s 
stand up for Janet Dempster. She sat up with me night after 
night when I had that attack of rheumatic fever six years 
ago. There’s great excuses for her. When a woman can’t 
think of her husband coming home without trembling, it’s 
enough to make her drink something to blunt her feelings — 
and no children, either, to keep her from it. You and me 
might do the same, if we were in her place.” 

“ Speak for yourself, Mrs. Pettifer,” said Miss Pratt. “ Un- 
der no circumstances can I imagine myself resorting to a prac- 
tice so degrading. A woman should find support in her own 
strength of mind.” 

“ I think,” said Rebecca, who considered Miss Pratt still 
very blind in spiritual things, notwithstanding her assump- 
tion of enlightenment, “ she will find poor support if she trusts 
only to her own strength. She must seek aid elsewhere than 
in herself.” 

Happily the removal of the tea-things just then created a 
little confusion, which aided Miss Pratt to repress her resent- 


/AJV£rS REPENTAN-CE. 


215 

ment at Rebecca’s presumption in correcting her — a person 
like Rebecca Linnet! who six months ago was as flighty and 
vain a woman as Miss Pratt had ever known — so very un- 
conscious of her unfortunate person ! 

The ladies had scarcely been seated at their work another 
hour, when the sun was sinking, and the clouds that flecked 
the sky to the very zenith were every moment taking on a 
brighter gold. The gate of the little garden opened, and Miss 
Linnet, seated at her small table near the window, saw Mr. 
Try an enter. 

“ There is Mr. Tryan,” she said, and her pale cheek was 
lighted up with a little blush that would have made her look 
more attractive to almost any one except Miss Eliza Pratt, 
whose fine gray eyes allowed few things to escape her silent 
observation. “ Mary Linnet gets more and more in love with 
Mr. Tryan,” thought Miss Eliza ; ‘‘it is really pitiable to see 
such feelings in a woman of her age, with those old-maidish 
little ringlets. I dare say she flatters herself Mr. Tryan may 
fall in love with her, because he makes her useful among the 
poor.” At the same time, Miss Eliza, as she bent her hand- 
some head and large cannon curls with apparent calmness 
over her work, felt a considerable internal flutter when she 
heard the knock at the door. Rebecca had less self-command. 
She felt too much agitated to go on with her pasting, and 
clutched the leg of the table to counteract the trembling in 
her hands. 

Poor women’s hearts ! Heaven forbid that I should laugh 
at you, and make cheap jests on your susceptibility towards 
the clerical sex, as if it had nothing deeper or more lovely in 
it that the mere vulgar angling for a husband. Even in these 
enlightened days, many a curate who, considered abstractedly, 
is nothing more than a sleek bimanous animal in a white neck- 
cloth, with views more or less Anglican, and furtively addicted 
to the flute, is adored by a girl who has coarse brothers, 
or by a solitary woman who would like to be a helpmate in 
good works beyond her own means, simply because he seems 
to them the model of refinement and of public usefulness. 
What wonder, then, that in Milby society, such as I have told 
you it was a very long while ago, a zealous evangelical clergy- 
man, aged thirty-three, called forth all the little agitations 
that belong to the divine necessity of loving, implanted in the 
Miss Linnets, with their seven or eight lustrums and their un- 
fashionable ringlets, no less than in Miss Eliza Pratt, with her 
youthful bloom and her ample cannon curls. 


2i6 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


But Mr. Tryan has entered the room, and the strange light 
from the golden sky falling on his light-brown hair, which is 
brushed high up round his head, makes it look almost like an 
aureole. His gray eyes, too, shine with unwonted brilliancy 
this evening. They were not remarkable eyes, but they ac- 
corded completely in their changing light with the changing 
expression of his person, which indicated the paradoxical 
character often observable in a large-limbed sanguine blond ; 
at once mild and irritable, gentle and overbearing, indolent 
and resolute, self-conscious and dreamy. Except that the 
well-filled lips had something of the artificially compressed 
look which is often the sign of a struggle to keep the dragon 
undermost, and that the complexion was rather pallid, giving 
the idea of imperfect health, Mr. Tryan’s face in repose was 
that of an ordinary whiskerless blond, and it seemed difficult 
to refer a certain air of distinction about him to anything in 
particular, unless it were his delicate hands and well-shapen 
feet. 

It was a great anomaly to the Milby mind that a canting 
evangelical parson, who would take tea with tradespeople, 
and make friends of vulgar women like the Linnets, should 
have so much the air of a gentleman, and be so little like 
the splay-footed Mr. Stickney of Salem, to whom he ap- 
proximated so closely in doctrine. And this want of corre- 
spondence between the physique and the creed had excited no 
less surprise in the larger town of Laxeter, where Mr. Tryan 
had formerly held a curacy ; for of the two other Low Church 
clergymen in the neighborhood, one was a Welshman of 
globose figure and unctuous complexion, and the other a 
man of atrabiliar aspect, with lank black hair, and a redund- 
ance of limp cravat — in fact, the sort of thing you might ex- 
pect in men who distributed the publications of the Relig- 
ious Tract Society, and introduced Dissenting hvmns into the 
Church. 

Mr. Tryan shook hands with Mrs. Linnet, bowed with 
rather a preoccupied air to the other ladies, and seated him- 
self in the large horse-hair easy-chair which had been drawn 
forward for him, while the ladies ceased from their work, and 
fixed their eyes on him, awaiting the news he had to tell 
them. 

“ It seems,” he began, in a low and silvery tone, “ I need 
a lesson of patience ; there has been something wrong in my 
thought or action about this evening lecture. I have been 
too much bent on doing good to Milby after my own plan — 
too reliant on my own wisdom.” 


JANET'S REPENTANCE, 


217 

Mr. Tryan paused. He was struggling against inward 
irritation, 

“ The delegates are come back, then ? ” “ Has Mr. Pren- 
dergast given way?” “ Has Dempster succeeded?” — were 
the eager questions of three ladies at once. 

“Yes; the town is in an uproar. As we were sitting in 
Mr. Landor’s drawing-room we heard a loud cheering, and 
presently Mr. Thrupp, the clerk at the bank, who had been 
waiting at the Red Lion to hear the result, came to let us 
know. He said Dempster had been making a speech to the 
mob out the window. They were distributing drink to the 
people, and hoisting placards in great letters, — ‘ Down with 
the Tryanites ! ’ ‘ Down with cant ! ’ They had a hideous 

caricature of me being tripped-up and pitched head foremost 
out of the pulpit. Good old Mr. Landor would insist on 
sending me round in the carriage ; he thought 1 should not 
be safe from the mob ; but I got down at the Crossways. 
The row was evidently preconcerted by Dempster before he 
set out. He made sure of succeeding.” 

Mr. Tryan’s utterance had been getting rather louder 
and more rapid in the course of this speech, and he now 
added, in the energetic chest-voice, which, both in and out 
of the pulpit, alternated continually with his more silvery 
notes, 

“ But his triumph will be a short one. If he thinks he 
can intimidate me by obloquy or threats, he has mistaken the 
man he has to deal with. Mr. Dempster and his colleagues 
*'will find themselves checkmated after all. Mr. Prendergasl 
has been false to his own conscience in this business. He 
knows as well as I do that he is throwing away the souls of 
the people by leaving things as they are in the parish. But 
I shall appeal to the Bishop — I am confident of his sym-. 
pathy.” 

“ The Bishop will be coming shortly, I suppose,” said 
Miss Pratt, “ to hold a confirmation ? ” 

“ Yes but I shall write to him at once, and lay the case 
before him. Indeed, I must hurry away now, for I have many 
matters to attend to. You, ladies, have been kindly helping 
me with your labors, I see,” continued Mr. Tryan, politely, 
glancing at the canvas-covered books as he rose from his seat. 
Then, turning to Mary Linnet : “ Our library is really getting 
on, I think. You and your sister have quite a heavy task of 
distribution now.” 

Poor Rebecca felt it very hard to bear that Mr. Tryan did 


2i8 


SCEA^ES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


not turn towards her too. If he knew how much she entered 
into his feelings about the lecture, and the interest she took 
in the library. Well ! perhaps it was her lot to be overlooked 
— and it might be a token of mercy. Even a good man might 
not always know the heart that was most with him. But the 
next moment poor Mary had a pang, when Mr. Tryan turned 
to Miss Eliza Pratt, and the preoccupied expression of his 
face melted into that beaming timidity with which a man 
almost always addresses a pretty woman. 

“ I have to thank you, too, Miss Eliza, for seconding me 
so well in your visits to Joseph Mercer. The old man tells 
me how precious he^nds your reading to him, now he is no 
longer able to go to .church.” 

Miss Eliza only answered by a blush, which made her look 
all the handsomer, but her aunt said, 

“ Yes, Mr. Tryan, I have ever inculcated on my dear 
Eliza the importance of spending her leisure in being useful 
to her fellow-creatures. Your example and instruction have 
been quite in the spirit of the system which I have always 
pursued, though we are indebted to you for a clearer view of 
the motives that should actuate us in our pursuit of good 
works. Not that I can accuse myself of having ever had a 
self-righteous spirit, but my humility was rather instinctive 
than based on a firm ground of doctrinal knowledge, such as 
you so admirably impart to us.” 

Mrs. Linnet’s usual entreaty that Mr. Tryan would have 
something — some wine and water and a biscuit,” was just 
here a welcome relief from the necessity of answering Miss 
Pratt’s oration. 

‘‘Not anything, my dear Mrs. Linnet, thank you. You 
forget what a Rechabite I am. By the bye, when 1 went this 
morning to see a poor girl in Butcher’s Lane, whom I had 
heard of as being in a consumption, I found Mrs. Dempster 
there. I had often met her in the street, but did not know it 
was Mrs. Dempster. It seems she goes among the poor a 
good deal. She is really an interesting-looking woman. I 
was quite surprised, for I have heard the worst account of 
her habits — that she is almost as bad as her husband. She 
went out hastily as soon as I entered. But ” (apologetically) 
“ I am keeping you all standing, and I must reallv hurry 
awa}^. Mrs. Pettifer, I have not had the pleasure of calling 
on you for some time ; I shall take an early opportunity of 
going your way. Good-evening, good-evening.” 


JA NE T'S RE PEA' I'ANCE, 


2IQ 


CHAPTER IV. 

Mr. Tryan was right in saying that the “ row ” in Milby 
had been preconcerted by Dempster. The placards and the 
caricature were prepared before the departure of the dele- 
gates j and it had been settled that Mat Paine, Dempster’s 
clerk, should ride out on Thursday morning to meet them at 
Whitlow, the last place where they would change horses, 
that he might gallop back and prepare an ovation for the 
triumvirate in case of their success. Dempster had deter- 
mined to dine at Whitlow j so that Mat Paine was in Milby 
again two hours before the entrance of the delegates, and had 
lime to send a whisper up the back streets that there was 
promise of a “ spree ” in the Bridge Way, as well as to as- 
semble two knots of picked men — one to feed the flame of 
orthodox zeal with gin and water, at the Green Man, near 
High Street ; the other to solidify their church principles 
with heady beer at the Bear and Ragged Staff in the Bridge 
Way. 

The Bridge Way was an irregular straggling street, where 
the town fringed off raggedly .into the Whitlow road: rows 
of new red brick houses, in which ribbon-looms were rat- 
tling behind long lines of window, alternating with old, half- 
thatched, half-tiled cottages — one of those dismal wide streets 
where dirt and misery have no long shadows thrown on 
them to soften their ugliness. Here, about half-past five 
o’clock, Silly Caleb, an idiot well known in Dog Lane, but 
more of a stranger in the Bridge Way, was seen slouching 
along with a string of boys hooting at his heels ; presently 
another group, for the most part out at elbows, came briskly 
in the same direction, looking around them with an air of ex- 
pectation ; and at no long interval. Deb Traunter, in a pink 
flounced gown and floating ribbons, was observed talking with 
great affability to two men in seal-skin caps and fustian, who 
formed her cortege. The Bridge Way began to have a pre- 
sentiment of something in the wind. Phib Cook left her 
evening wash-tub and appeared at her door in soap-suds, a 
bonnet-poke, and general dampness ; three narrow-chested 
ribbon-weavers, in rusty black with shreds of many-colored 
silk, sauntered out with their hands in their pockets ; and 
Molly Beale, a brawny old virago, descrying wiry Dame 


220 


SCENES OF CLEF /CAL LIFE, 


Ricketts peeping out from her entry, seized the opportunity 
of renewing the mortiing's skiiinish. In short, the Bridge 
Way was in that state ox excitement which is understood to 
announce a “ demonstration ” on the part of the British pub- 
lic ; and the afflux of remote townsmen increasing, there was 
soon so large a crowd that it was time for Bill Powers, 
plethoric Goliath, who presided over the knot of beer-drinkers 
at the Bear and Ragged Staff, to issue forth with his compan- 
ions, and, like the enunciator of the ancient myth, make the 
assemblage distinctly conscious of the common sentiment 
that had drawn them together. The expectation of the dele- 
gates’ chaise, added to the fight between Molly Beale and 
Dame Ricketts, and the ill-advised appearance of a lean bull- 
terrier, were a sufficient safety-valve to the popular excitement 
during the remaining quarter of an hour ; at the end of which 
the chaise was seen approaching along the Whitlow road, 
with oak boughs ornamenting the horses’ heads • and, to 
quote the account of this interesting scene which was sent to 
the “ Rotherby Guardian,” “ loud cheers immediately testi- 
fied to the sympathy of the honest fellows connected there 
with the public-spirited exertions of their fellow-townsmen.” 
Bill Powers, whose bloodshot eyes, bent hat, and protuberant 
altitude, marked him out as the natural leader of the assem- 
blage, undertook to interpret the common sentiment by stop- 
ping the chaise, advancing to the door with raised hat, and 
begging to know of Mr. Dempster, whether the Rector Lad 
forbidden the “ canting lecture.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Dempster. “Keep up a jolly good 
hurray.” 

No public duty could have been more easy and agreeable 
to Mr. Powers and his associates, and the chorus swelled all the 
way to the High Street, where, by a mysterious coincidence 
often observable in these spontaneous “demonstrations,” 
large placards on long poles were observed to shoot upwards 
from among the crowd, principally in the direction of Tuck- 
er’s Lane, where the Green Man was situated. One bore, 
“ Down with the Tryanites ! ” another, “ No Cant ! ” another, 
“ Long live our venerable Curate ! ” and one in still largei 
letters, “ Sound Church Principles and no Hypocrisy ! ” But 
a still more remarkable impromptu was a huge caricature of 
Mr. Tryan in gown and band, with an enormous aureole of 
yellow hair and upturned eyes, standing on the pulpit stairs 
and trying to pull down old Mr. Crewe. Groans, yells, and 
hisses — hisses, yells, and groans — only stemmed by the ap* 


JANE7"S REPENTANCE. 


221 


peirance of another caricature representing Mr. Tryan being 
pitched head-foremost from the pulpit stairs by a hand which 
the artist, either from subtility of intention or want of space, 
had left unindicated. In the midst of the tremendous cheer- 
ing that saluted this piece of symbolical art, the chaise had 
reached the door of the Red Lion, and loud cries of “Demp- 
ster forever ! ” with a feebler cheer now and then for Tom- 
linson and Budd, w^ere presently responded to by the appear- 
ance of the public-spirited attorney at the large upper win- 
dow, where also were visible a little in the background the 
small sleek head of Mr. Budd, and the blinking countenance 
of Mr. Tomlinson. 

Mr. Dempster held his hat in his hand, and poked his 
head forward with a butting motion by way of bow. A storm 
of cheers subsided at last into dropping sounds of “ Silence ! ” 
“ Hear him ! ” “ Go it Dempster ! ” and the lawyer’s rasping 
voice became distinctly audible. 

“ Fellow-townsmen ! It gives us the sincerest pleasure — • 
I speak for my respected colleagues as well as myself — to 
witness these strong proofs of your attachment to the princi- 
ples of our excellent Church, and your zeal for the honor of 
our venerable pastor. But it is no more than I expected of 
you. I know you well. I’ve known you for the last twenty 
years to be as honest and respectable a set of ratepayers as 
any in thiscountr}^ Your hearts are sound to the core ! No 
man had better try to thrust his cant and hypocrisy down 
your throats. You’re used to wash them with liquor of abet- 
ter flavor. This is the proudest moment in my own life, and 
I think I may say in that of my colleagues, in which I have to 
tell you that our exertions in the cause of sound religion and 
manly morality have been crowned with success. Yes, my 
fellow-townsmen ! I have the gratification of announcing to 
you thus formally what you have already learned indirectly. 
The pulpit from which our venerable pastor has fed us with 
sound doctrine for half a century is not to be invaded by a 
fanatical, sectarian, double-faced, Jesuitical interloper! We 
are not to have our young people demoralized and corrupted 
by the temptations to vice, notoriously connected with Sun- 
day evening lectures ! We are not to have a preacher ob- 
truding himself upon us, who. decries good works, and sneaks 
into our homes perverting the faith of our wives and daugh- 
ters ! We are not to be poisoned with doctrines which damp 
every innocent enjoyment, and pick a poor man’s pocket of 
the sixpence with which he might buy himself a cheerful glass 


222 


SCEN-ES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


after a hard day’s work, under pretence of paying for Bibles 
to send to the Chicktaws 1 

‘‘ But I’m not going to waste your valuable time with un- 
necessary words. I am a man of deeds.” (“ Ay, damn you, 
that you are, and you charge well for ’em too,” said a voice 
from the crowd, probably that of a gentleman who was im 
mediately afterwards observed with his hat crushed over his 
head). “I shall always be at the service of my fellow-tov/ns- 
men, and whoever dares to hector over you, or interfere with 
your innocent pleasures, shall have an account to settle with 
Robert Dempster. 

“ Now, my boys ! you can’t do better than disperse and 
carry the good news to all your fellow-townsmen, whose 
hearts are as sound as your own. Let some of you go one 
way and some another, that every man, woman and child in 
Milby may know what you know yourselves. But before we 
part, let us have three cheers for True Religion, and down 
with Cant I ” 

When the last cheer was dying, Mr. Dempster closed the 
window, and the judiciously-instructed placards and carica- 
tures moved off in divers directions, followed by larger or 
smaller divisions of the crowd. The greatest attraction ap- 
parently lay in the direction of Dog Lane, the outlet towards 
Paddiford Common, whither the caricatures were moving ; 
and you foresee, of course, that those works of symbolical art 
were consumed with a liberal expenditure of dry gorse-bushes 
and vague shouting. 

After these great public exertions, it was natural that Mr. 
Dempster and his colleagues should feel more in need than 
usual of a little social relaxation ; and a party of their friends 
was already beginning to assemble in the large parlor of the 
Red Lion, convened partly by their own curiosity and partly 
by the invaluable Mat Paine. The most capacious punch- 
bowl was put in requisition ; and that born gentleman, Mr. 
Lowme, seated opposite Mr. Dempster as “ Vice,” under- 
took to brew the punch, defying the criticisms of the 
envious men out of office, who, with the readiness of irre- 
sponsibility, ignorantly suggested more lemons. The social 
festivities were continued till long past midnight, when 
several friends of sound religion were conveyed home with 
some difficulty, one of them showing a dogged determination 
to seat himself in the gutter. 

Mr. Dempster had done as much justice to the punch as 
any of the party ; and his friend Boots, though aware that the 


JANET’S REPENTANCE, 


223 

lawyer could “ carry his liquor like Old Nick,” with whose 
social demeanor Boots seemed to be particularly w-ell 
acquainted, nevertheless thought it might be as well to see so 
good a customer in safety to his own door, and walked quietly 
behind his elbow out of the inn-yard. Dempster, however, 
soon became aware of him, stopped short, and, turning slowly 
round upon him, recognized the well known drab waistcoat 
sleeves, conspicuous enough in the starlight. 

“You twopenny scoundrel ! What do you mean by dog-- 
ging a professional man’s footsteps in this way .? I’ll break 
every bone in your skin if you attempt to track me, like a 
beastly cur sniffing at one’s pocket. Do you think a gentle- 
man will make his way home any the better for having the 
scent of your blacking-bottle thrust up his nostrils ? ” 

Boots slunk back, in more amusement than ill-humor, 
thinking the lawyer’s “ rum talk ” was doubtless part and 
parcel of his professional ability ; and Mr. Dempster pursued 
his slow way alone. 

His house lay in Orchard Street, which opened on the 
prettiest outskirt of the town — the church, the parsonage, and 
a loi}j*^ stretch of green fields. It was an old-fashioned house, 
withv^^i overhanging upper storey ; outside it had a face of 
rough stucco, and casement windows with green frames and 
shutters ;• inside, it was full of long passages, and rooms with 
low ceilings. There was a large heavy knocker on the green 
door, and though Mr. Dempster carried a latch-key, he some- 
times chose to use the knocker. He chose to do so now. 
The thunder resounded through Orchard Street, and, after a 
single minute, there was a second clap louder than the first. 
Another minute, and still the door was not opened ; where- 
upon Mr. Dempster, muttering, took out his latch-key, and, 
with less difficulty than might have been expected, thrust it 
into the door. When he open the door the passage was dark. 

“ Janet ! ” in the loudest rasping tone, was the next sound 
that rang through the house. 

“Janet!” again — before a slow step was heard on the 
stairs, and a distant light began to flicker on the wall of the 
passage. 

“ Curse you ! you creeping idiot ! Come faster, can’t you 

Yet a few seconds, and the figure of a tall woman, hold- 
ing aslant a heavy-plated drawing-room candlestick, appeared 
at the turning of the passage tha\ led to the broader entrance. 

She had on a light dress which sat loosely about her figure, 
but did not disguise its liberal, graceful outline. A heavy 


224 


SCE.VES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


mass of straight jet-black hair had escaped from its fastening, 
and hung over her shoulders. Her grandly-cut features, pale, 
with the natural paleness of a brunette, had premature lines 
about them, telling that the years had been lengthened by 
sorrow, and the delicately-curved nostril, which seemed made 
to quiver with the proud consciousness of power and beauty, 
must have quivered to the heart-piercing griefs which had 
given that worn look to the corners of the mouth. Her wide- 
open black eyes had a strangely fixed, sightless gaze, as she 
paused at the turning, and stood silent before her husband. 

“ ril teach you to keep me waiting in the dark, you pale 
staring fool ! ” he said, advancing with his slow drunken step. 

What, you’ve been drinking again, have you ? I’ll beat you 
into your senses.” 

He laid his hand with a firm grip on her shoulder, turned 
her round, and pushed her slowly before him along the pas- 
sage and through the dining-room door, which stood open on 
their left hand. 

There was a portrait of Janet’s mother, a gray-haired, 
dark-eyed old woman, in a neatly fluted cap, hanging over the 
mantel-piece. Surely the aged eyes take on a look of at^uish 
as they see Janet — not trembling, no ! it would be betoer if 
she trembled — standing stupidly unmoved in her great beauty 
while the heavy arm is lifted to strike her. The blow falls — 
another — and another. Surely the mother hears that cry — • 
“ Oh, Robert ! pity ! pity ! ” 

Poor gray-haired woman ! Was it for this you suffered a 
mother’s pangs in your lone widowhood five-and-thirty years 
ago ? Was it for this you kept the little worn morocco shoes 
Janet had first run in, and kissed them day by day when she 
was away from you, a tall girl at school .? Was it for this 
you looked proudly at her when she came back to you in her 
rich pale beauty, like a tall white arum that has just unfolded 
its grand pure curves to the sun } 

The mother lies sleepless and praying in her lonely house, 
weeping the difficult tears of age, because she dreads this may 
be a cruel night for her child. 

She too has a picture over her mantel-piece, drawn in chalk 
by Janet long years ago. She looked at it before she went 
to bed. It is a head bowed beneath a cross, .and wearing a 
crown of thorns. 


JANETS REPENTANCE. 


225 


CHAPTER V. 

It was half past nine o’clock in the morning. The mid* 
sumrner sun was already warm on the roofs and weathercocks 
of Milby. The church-bells were ringing, and many families 
were conscious of Sunday sensations, chiefly referable to the 
fact that the daughters had come down to breakfast in their 
best frocks, and with their hair particularly well dressed. For 
it was not Sunday, but Wednesday ; and though the Bishop 
was going to hold a Confirmation, and to decide whether or 
not there should be a Sunday evening lecture in Milly, the 
sunbeams had the usual working-day look to the hay-makers 
already long out in the fields, and to laggard weavers just 
“setting up ” their week’s “ piece.” The notion of its being 
Sunday was the strongest in young ladies like Miss Phipps, 
who was going to accompany her younger sister to the con- 
firmation, and to wear a “ sweetly pretty ” transparent bon- 
net with marabout feathers on the interesting occasion, thus 
throwing into relief the suitable simplicity of her sister’s at- 
tire, who was, of course, to appear in a new white frock ; or 
in the pupils at Miss Townley’s, who were absorbed from all 
lessons, and were going to church to see the Bishop, and to 
hear the honorable and Reverend Mr. Prendergast, the rector, 
read prayers — a high intellectual treat, as Miss Townley as- 
sured them. It seemed only natural that a rector who was 
honorable should read better than old Mr. Crewe, who was 
only a curate, and not honorable ; and when little Clara 
Robins wondered why some clergymen were rectors and 
others not, Ellen Marriott assured her with great confidence 
that it was only the clever men who were made rectors. Ellen 
Marriott was going to be confirmed. She was a short, fair, 
plump girl, with blue eyes and sandy hair, which was this 
morning arranged in taller cannon curls than usual, for the 
reception of the Episcopal benediction, and some of the young 
ladies thought her the prettiest girl in the school ; but others 
gave the preference to her rival, Maria Gardner, who was 
much taller, and had a lovely “crop ” of dark-brown ringlets, 
and who, being also about to take upon herself the vows made 
in her name at her baptism, had oiled and twisted her ringlets 
with special care. As she seated herself at the breakfast- 
table before Miss Townley’s entrance to dispense the weak 


226 SCEN-ES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 

coffee, her crop excited so strong a sensation that Ellen Mar« 
riott was at length impelled to look at it, and to say with siip' 
pressed but bitter sarcasm, “ Is that Miss Gardner’s head ? ” 
“Yes,” said Maria, amiable and stuttering, and no match for 
Ellen in retort ; “ th — th — this is my head.” “ Then I don’t 
admire it at all ! ” was the crushing rejoinder of Ellen, fol- 
lowed by a murmur of approval among her friends. Young 
ladies, I suppose, exhaust their sac of venom in this way at 
school. That is the reason why they have such a harmless 
tooth for each other in after life. 

The only other candidate for confirmation at Miss Town- 
ley’s was Mary Dunn, a draper’s daughter in Milby and a dis- 
tant relation of the Miss Linnets. Her pale lanky hair could 
never be coaxed into permanent curl, and this morning the 
heat had brought it down to its natural condition of lankiness 
earlier than usual. But that was not what made her sit mel- 
ancholy and apart at the lower end of the form. Her parents 
were admirers of Mr. Tryan, and had been persuaded, by the 
Miss Linnets’ influence, to insist that their daughter should 
be prepared for confirmation by him, over and above the prep- 
aration given to Miss Townley’s pupils by Mr. Crewe. Poor 
Mary Dunn ! I am afraid she thought it too heavy a price to 
pay for these spiritual advantages, to be excluded from every 
game at ball, to be obliged to walk with none but little girls 
— in fact, to be the object of an aversion that nothing short of 
an incessant supply of plumcakes would have neutralized. 
And Mrs. Dunn was of opinion that plumcake was unwhole- 
some. The anti-Tryanite spirit, you perceive, was very strong 
at Miss Townley’s, imported probably by day scholars, as well 
as encouraged by the fact that that clever woman was herself 
strongly opposed to innovation, and remarked every Sunday 
that Mr. Crewe had preached an “ excellent discourse.” 
Poor Mary Dunn dreaded the n.oment when school-hours 
would be over, for then she was sure to be the butt of those 
very explicit remarks which, in young ladies’ as well as young 
gentlemen’s seminaries, constitute the most subtle and 
delicate form of the innuendo. “ I’d never be a Tryanite, 
would you ? ” “Oh here comes the lady that knows so much 
more about religion than we do ! ” “ Some people think 

themselves so very pious ! ” 

It is really surprising that young ladies should not be 
thought competent to the same curriculum as young gentle- 
men. I observe that their powers of sarcasm are quite equal j 
and if there had been a genteel academy for young gentle- 


/ANE'rS REPENTANCE. 


227 

men at Milby, I am inclined to think that, notwithstanding 
Euclid and the classics, the party spirit there would not have 
exhibited itself in more pungent irony, or more incisive satire, 
than was heard in Miss Townley’s seminary. But there was 
no such academy, the existence of the grammar-school under 
Mr. Crewe’s superintendence probably discouraging specula- 
tions of that kind ; and the genteel youUis of Milby were 
chiefly come home for the midsummer holidays from distant 
schools. Several of us had just assumed coat-tails, and the 
assumption of new responsibilities apparently following as a 
matter of course, we were among the candidates for confirma- 
tion. I wish I could say that the solemnity of our feelings 
was on a level with the solemnity of the occasion ; but unim- 
aginative boys find it difficult to recognize apostolical insti- 
tutions in their developed form, and I fear our chief emotion 
concerning the ceremony was a sense of sheepishness, and our 
chief opinion, the speculative and heretical position that it 
ought to be confined to the girls. It was a pity, you will 
say ; but it is the way with us men in other crises, that come 
a long while after confirmation. The golden moments in 
the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand ; 
the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when 
they are gone. 

But as I said, the morning was sunny, the bells were ring- 
ing, the ladies of Milby were dressed in their Sunday gar- 
ments. 

And who is this bright-looking woman walking with hasty 
step along Orchard Street so early, with a large nosegay in 
her hand.? Can it be Janet Dempster, on whom we looked 
with such deep pity, one sad midnight, hardly a fortnight 
ago ? Yes ; no other woman in Milby has those searching 
black eyes, that tall, graceful, unconstrained figure, set off by 
her simple muslin dress and black lace shawl, that massy 
black hair now so neatly braided in glossy contrast with the 
white satin ribbons of her modest cap and bonnet. No other 
woman has that sweet speaking smile, with which she nods to 
Jonathan Lamb, the old parish clerk. And, ah ! — now she 
comes nearer — there are those sad lines about the mouth 
and eyes on which that sweet smile plays like sunbeams on 
the storm-beaten beauty of the full and ripened corn. 

She is turning out of Orchard Street, and making her 
way as fast as she can to her mother’s house, a pleasant cot- 
tage facing the roadside meadow, from which the hay is being 
carried. Mrs. Raynor has had her breakfast, and is seated 


SCEA^ES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


22 *^ 

lA her arm-chair reading, when Janet opens the door, saying, 
in her most playful voice, 

“ Please, mother. I’m come to show myself to you before 
I go to the Parsonage. Have I put on my pretty cap and 
bonnet to satisfy you ? ” 

Mrs. Raynor looked over her spectacles, and met her 
daughter’s glance with eyes as dark and loving as her own. 
She was a much smaller woman than Janet, both in figure 
and feature, the chief resemblance lying in the eyes and the 
clear brunette complexion. The mother’s hair had long been 
gray, and was gathered under the neatest of caps, made by 
her own clever fingers, as all Janet’s caps and bonnets were 
tc o. They were well-practised fingers, for Mrs. Raynor had 
supported herself in her widowhood by keeping a millinery 
establishment, and in this way had earned money enough to 
give her daughter what was then thought’a first-rate educa- 
tion, as well as to save a sum which, eked out by her son-in- 
law, sufficed to support her in her solitary old age. Always 
the same clean, neat old lady, dressed in black silk, was Mrs. 
Raynor : a patient, brave woman, who bowed with resigna- 
tion under the burden of remembered sorrow, and bore with 
meek fortitude the new load that the new days brought with 
them. 

“Your bonnet wants pulling a trifle forwarder, my child,” 
she said, smiling, and taking off her spectacles, while Janet 
at once knelt down before her, and waited to be “ set to 
rights,” as she would have done when she was a child. 
“ You’re going straight to Mrs. Crewe’s, 1 suppose ? Are 
those flowers to garnish the dishes ? ” 

“No, indeed, mother. This is a nosegay for the middle 
of the table. I’ve sent up the dinner-service and the ham 
we had cooked at our house yesterday, and Betty is coming 
directly with the garnish and the plate. We shall get our 
good Mrs. Crewe through her troubles famously. Dear tiny 
woman ! You should have seen her lift up her hands yester- 
day, and pray heaven to take her before ever she should have 
another collation to get ready for the Bishop. She said, “ It’s 
bad enough to have the Archdeacon, though he doesn’t want 
half so many jelly-glasses. I wouldn’t mind, Janet, if it was 
to feed all the old hungry cripples in Milby ; but so much 
trouble a^rd expense for people who eat too much every day 
of their lives ! ’ We had such a cleaning and furbishing up 
of the sitxina:-room yesterday ! Nothing will ever do away 
with the '^mell of Mr. Crewe’s pipes, you know; but we have 


JANET'S REPENTANCE, 2'>9 

thrown it into the background with yellow soap and dry lav- 
ender. And now I must run away. You will come to church 
mother : ’ 

Yes, my dear, I wouldn't lose such a pretty sio-ht. It 
does my old eyes good to see so many fresh young faces* Is 
your husband going.?” ' ^ 

“ Yes, Robert will be there. I’ve made him as neat as a 
new pm this morning, and he says the Bishop will think him 
too buckish by half. I took him into Mammy Dempster’s 
room to show himself. We hear Tryan is making sure of the 
Bishop s support ; but we shall see. I would give my crooked 
guinea, and all the luck it will ever bring me, to have him 
beaten, for I can’t endure the sight of the man coming to ha- 
rass dear old Mr. and Mrs. Crewe in their last da3^s. Preach- 
ing the Gospel indeed ! That is the best Gospel that makes 
everybody happy and comfortable, isn’t it, mother?” 

‘ Ah, child, I'm afraid there’s no Gospel will do that here 
below.” 

“Well, I can do something to comfort Mrs. Creve, at 
least ; so give me a kiss, and good-by till church time.” 

Her mother leaned back in her chair when Janet was gone 
and sank into a painful reverie. When our life is a continu- 
ous trial, the moments of respite seem only to substitute the 
heaviness of dread for the heaviness of actual suffering : the 
curtain of cloud seems parted an instant only that we may 
measure all its horror as it hangs low, black, and imminent, in 
contrast wuth the transient brightness ; the water-drops that 
visit the parched lips in the desert bear with them only the 
keen imagination of thirst. Janet looked glad and tender now 
■ — but w’hat scene of misery was coming next ? She w^as too 
like the cistus-flowers in the little garden before the window, 
that, with the shades of evening, might lie with the delicate 
white and glossy dark of their petals trampled in the roadside 
dust. When the sun had sunk, and the twilight was deepen- 
ing, Janet might be sitting there, heated, maddened, sobbing 
out her griefs with selfish passion, and wildly wishing her- 
self dead. 

Mrs. Raynor had been reading about the lost sheep, and 
the joy there is in heaven over the sinner that repenteth. 
Surely the eternal love she believed in through all the sadness 
of her lot, w'ould not leave her child to wander farther and 
farther into the wilderness till there was no turning ; the child 
so lovely, so pitiful to others, so good, till she was goaded 
into sin byw'oman’s bitterest sorrows ! Mrs. Raynor had her 


SCENES OF CL EE /CAL LIFE. 


230 

faith and her spiritual comforts, though she was not in the 
least evangelical and knew nothing of doctrinal zeal. I fear 
most of Mr. Tryaivs hearers would have considered her desti- 
tute of saving knowledge, and 1 am quite sure she had no 
well-defined views on justification. Nevertheless, she read 
her Bible a great deal, and thought she found divine lessons 
there — how to bear the cross meekl}^, and be merciful. Let 
us hope that there is a saving ignorance, and that Mrs. Ray- 
nor was justified without knowing exactly how. 

She tried to have hope and trust, though it was hard to 
believe that the future would be anything else than the har- 
vest of the seed that was being sown before her eyes. But 
always there is seed being sown silently and unseen, and 
everywhere there come sweet [lowers without our foresight or 
labor. We reap what we sow, but Nature has love over and 
above that justice, and gives us shadow and blossom and 
fruit that spring from no planting of ours. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Most people must have agreed with Mrs. Raynor that the 
Confirmation that day was a pretty sight, at least when those 
slight girlish forms and fair young faces moved in a white rivu- 
let along the aisles, and flowed into kneeling semicircles under 
the light of the great chancel window, softened by patches of 
dark old painted glass ; and one would think that to look on 
while a pair of venerable hands pressed such young heads, 
and a venerable face looked upward for a blessing on them, 
would be very likely to make the heart swell gently, and to 
moisten the eyes. Yet I remember the eyes seemed very dry 
in Milby Church that day, notwithstanding that the Bishop 
was an old man, and probably venerable (for though he was 
not an eminent Grecian, he was the brother of a Whig lord) ; 
and I think the eyes must have remained dry because he had 
small delicate womanish hands adorned with ruffles, and, in- 
stead of laying them on the girls’ heads, just let them hover 
over each in quick succession, as if it were not etiquette to 
touch them, and as if the laying on of hands were like the 
theatrical embrace — part of the play, and not to be really be- 
lieved in. To be sure there were a great many heads, and 
the Bishop’s time was limited. Moreover, a wig can, under 


JANET^S REPENTANCE. 


231 

no circumstances, be affecting, except in rare cases of illusion ; 
and copious lawn-sleeves cannot be expected to go directly to 
any heart except a washerwoman’s. 

I know, Ned Phipps, who knelt against me, and I am sure 
made me behave much worse than 1 should have done with- 
out him, whispered that he thought the Bishop was a “ guy,” 
and I certainly remember thinking that Mr. Prendergast 
looked much more dignified with his plain while surplice and 
black hair. He was a tall commanding man, and read the 
Liturgy in a strikingly sonorous and uniform voice, which I 
tried to imitate the next Sunday at home, until my little sis- 
ter began to cry, and said I was “ yoaring at her.” 

Mr, Tryan sat in a pew near the pulpit with several other 
clergymen. He looked pale, and rubbed his hand over his 
face and pushed back his hair oftener than usual. Standing 
in the aisle close to him, and repeating the responses with 
edifying loudness, was Mr. Budd, churchwarden and delegate, 
with a white staff in his hand and a backward bend of his 
small head and person, such as, I suppose, he considered 
suitable to a friend of sound religion. Conspicuous in the 
gallery, too, was the tall figure of Mr. Dempster, whose pro- 
fessional avocations rarely allowed him to occupy his place at 
church. 

“ There’s Dempster,” said Mrs. Linnet to her daughter 
Mary, “ looking more respectable than usual, I declare. He’s 
got a fine speech by heart to make the Bishop, I’ll answer 
for it. But he’ll be pretty well sprinkled with snuff before 
service is over, and the Bishop won’t be able to listen to him 
for sneezing, that’s one comfort.” 

At length the last stage in the long ceremony was over, 
the large assembly streamed warm, and weary into the open 
afternoon sunshine, and the Bishop retired to the Parsonage, 
where, after honoring Mrs. Crewe’s collation, he was to give 
audience to the delegates and Mr. Tryan on the great ques- 
tion in the evening lecture. 

Between five and six o’clock the Parsonage was once more 
as quiet as usual under the shadow of its tall elms, and the 
only traces of the Bishop’s recent presence there were the 
v.'heel-marks on the gravel, and the long table with its gar- 
nished dishes awry, its damask sprinkled with crumbs and its 
decanters without their stoppers. Mr. Crewe was already 
calmly smoking his pipe in the opposite sitting-room, and 
Janet was agreeing with Mrs. Crewe that some of the blanc- 
inange would be a nice thing to take to Sally Martin, while the 


SCEA^ES OF CLEE/CAL LIFE. 


232 

little old lady herself had a spoon in her hand ready to gather 
the crumbs into a plate, that she might scatter them on the 
gravel for the little birds. 

Before that time the Bishop’s carriage had been seen driv- 
ing through the High Street on its way to Lord Trufford’s, 
where he w'as to dine. The question of the lecture was de- 
cided, then.? 

The nature of the decision may be gathered from the fol- 
lowing conversation which took place in the bar of the Red 
Lion that evening. 

“ So you’re done, eh, Dempster ? ” was Mr. Pilgrim’s obser- 
vation, uttered with some gusto. He was not glad Mr. Tryan 
had gained his point, but he was not sorry Dempster was dis- 
appointed. 

“ Done, sir? Not at all. It is what I anticipated. I knew 
we had nothing else to expect in these days, when the Church 
is infested by a set of men who are only fit to give out hymns 
from an empty cask, to tunes set by a journeyman cobbler. 
But I was not the less to exert myself in the cause of sound 
Churchmanship for the good of the town. Any coward can 
fight a battle when he’s sure of winning ; but give me the 
man who has pluck to fight when he’s sure of losing. That’s 
my way, sir ; and there are many victories worse than a de- 
feat, as Mr. Tryan shall learn to his cost.” 

“ He must be a poor shuperannyated sort of a bishop, 
that’s my opinion,” said Mr. Tomlinson, “ to go along with a 
sneaking Methodist like Tryan. And, for my part, I think 
we should be as well wi’out bishops, if they’re no wiser than 
that. Where’s the use o’ havin’ thousands a-year an’ livin’ 
in a pallis, if they don’t stick to the Church?” 

“No. There you’re going out of your depth, Tomlinson,” 
said Mr. Dempster. “ No one shall hear me say a word 
against Episcopacy — it is a safeguard of the Church ; we 
must have ranks and dignities there as well as everywhere 
else. No, sir! Episcopacy is a good thing; but it may hap- 
pen that a bishop is not a good thing. Just as brandy is a 
good thing, though this particular brandy is British, and tastes 
like a sugared rain-water caught down the chimney. Here, 
Ratcliffe, let me have something to drink a little less like a 
decoction of sugar and soot.” 

“/said nothing again’ Episcopacy,” returned Mr. Tomlin- 
son. “ I only said I thought we should do as well wi’out bish- 
ops ; and I’ll say it again for the matter o’ that. Bishops 
never brought any grist to my mill.” 


JANET'S REPENTANCE. 


233 

“ Do you know when the lectures are to begin ? ” said 
Mr. Pilgrim. 

“ They are to begin on Sunday next,” said Mr. Dempster, 
in a significant tone ; “ but I think it will not take a long- 
sighted prophet to foresee the end of them. It strikes me 
Mr. Tryan will be looking out for another curacy shortly.” 

“ He’ll not get many Milby people to go and hear his lec- 
tures after a while. I’ll bet a guinea,” observed Mr. Budd. 
‘‘ I know I’ll not keep a single workman on my ground who 
either goes to the lecture himself or lets anybody belonging 
to him go.” 

“ Nor me nayther,” said Mr. Tomlinson. “ No Tryanite 
shall touch a sack or drive a wagon o’ mine, that you may 
depend on. An’ I know more besides me are o’ the same 
mind.” 

“ Tryan has a good many friends in the town, though, and 
friends that are likely to stand by him too,” said Mr. Pilgrim. 
“ I should say it would be as well to let him and his lectures 
alone. If he goes on preaching as he does, with such a con- 
stitution as his, he’ll get a relapsed throat by and by, and 
you’ll be rid of him without any trouble.” 

“ We’ll not allow him to do himself that injury,” said Mr. 
Dempster. “ Since his health is not good, we’ll persuade 
him to try change of air. Depend upon it, he’ll find the 
climate of Milby too hot for him.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Mr. Dempster did not stay long at the Red Lion that 
evening. He was summoned home to meet Mr. Armstrong, a 
wealthy client, and as he was kept in consultation till a late 
hour, it happened that this was one of the nights on which 
Mr. Dempster went to bed tolerably sober. Thus the day, 
which had been one of Janet’s happiest, because it had been 
spent by her in helping her dear old friend Mrs. Crewe, 
ended for her with unusual quietude ; and as a bright sunset 
promises a fair morning, so a calm lying down is a good aug- 
ury for a calm waking. Mr. Dempster, on the Thursday 
morning, was in one of his best humors, and though perhaps 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


2 VI 

some of the good-humor might result from the prospect of a 
lucrative and exciting bit of business in Mr. Armstrong’s 
probable law suit, the greater part was doubtless clue to those 
stirrings of the more kindly, healthy sap of human feeling,. by 
which goodness tries to get the upper hand in us whenever it 
seems to have the slightest chance — on Sunday mornings, 
perhaps, when we are set free from the grinding hurry of the 
week, and take the little three-year old on our knee at break- 
fast to share our egg and muffin ; in moments of trouble, when 
death visits our roof or illness makes us dependent on the 
tending hand of a slighted wife ; in quiet talks with an aged 
mother, of the days when we stood at her knee with our first 
picture-book, or wrote her loving letters from school. In 
the man whose childhood has known caresses there is always 
a fibre of memory that can be touched to gentle issues, and 
Mr. Dempster, whom you have hitherto seen only as the 
orator of the Red Lion, and the drunken tyrant of a dreary 
midnight home, was the first-born darling son of a fair little 
mother. That mother was living still, and her own large 
black easy-chair, where she sat knitting through the livelong 
day, was now set ready for her at the breakfast-table, by her 
son’s side, a sleek tortoise-shell cat acting as provisional in- 
cumbent. 

“ Good-morning, Mamsey ! why, you’re looking as fresh as 
a daisy this morning. You’re getting young again,” said Mr. 
Dempster, looking up from his newspaper when the little old 
lady entered. A very little old lady she was, with a pale, 
scarcely wrinkled face, hair of that peculiar white which tells 
that the locks have once been blond, a natty pure white cap 
on her head, and a white shawl pinned over her shoulders. 
You saw at a glance that she had been a mignonne blonde, 
strangely unlike her tall, ugly, dingy-complexioned son ; un- 
like her daughter-in-law, too, whose large-featured brunette 
beauty seemed always thrown into higher relief by the white 
presence of little Mamsey. The unlikeness between Janet 
and her mother-in-law went deeper than outline and complex- 
ion, and indeed there was little sympathy between them, for 
old Mrs. Dempster had not yet learned to believe that her 
son, Robert, would have gone wrong if he had married the 
right woman — a meek woman like herself, who would have 
borne him children and been a deft, orderly housekeeper. In 
spite of Janet’s tenderness and attention to her, she had had 
little love for her daughter in-law from the first, and had wit- 
nessed the sad growth of home-misery through long years. 


JANET^S REPEN7ANCE. 


■235 

always with a disposition to lay the blame on the wife rather 
than on the husband, and to reproach Mrs. Raynor for en- 
couraging her daughter’s faults by a too exclusive sympathy. 
But old Mrs. Dempster had that rare gift of silence and passiv- 
ity which often supplies the absence of mental strength ; and, 
whatever were her thoughts, she said no word to aggravate 
the domestic discord. Patient and mute she sat at her knit- 
ting through many a scene of quarrel and anguish ; resolutely 
she appeared unconscious of the sounds that reached her 
ears ; and the facts she divined after she had retired to her 
bed ; mutely she witnessed poor Janet’s faults, only register- 
ing them as a balance of excuse on the side of Jjer son. The 
hard, astute, domineering attorney was still that little old 
woman’s pet, as he had been when she watched with triumph- 
ant pride his first tumbling effort to march alone across the 
nursery floor. “ See what a good son he is to me ! ” she 
often thought. “ Never gave me a harsh word. And so he 
might have been a good husband.” 

“ Oh, it is piteous — that sorrow of aged w'omen ! In early 
youth perhaps, they said to themselves, “ I shall be happy when 
have a husband to love me best of all then, when the hus- 
band was too careless, “ My child will comfort me ; ” then, 
through the mother’s watching and toil, “ My child will repay 
me all when it grows up.” And at last, after the long journey 
of years has been wearily travelled through, the mother’s heart 
is weighed down by a heavier burden, and no hope remains 
but the grave. 

But this morning old Mrs. Dempster sat down in her easy- 
chair without any painful, suppressed remembrance of the 
preceding night. 

“ I declare mammy looks younger than Mrs. Crewe, who 
is only sixty-five,” said Janet. “ Mrs. Crewe will come to see 
you to-day, mammy, and tell you all about her troubles with 
the Bishop and the collation. She’ll bring her knitting, and 
you’ll have a regular gossip together.” 

“ The gossip will be all on one side, then, for Mrs. 
Crewe gets so very deaf, I can’t make her hear a word. And 
if I motion to her, she always understands me wrong.” 

“ Oh she will have so much to tell you to-day, you will 
not want to speak yourself. You, who have patience to knit 
those wonderful counterpanes, mammy, must not be impatient 
with dear Mrs. Crewe. Good old lady ! I can’t bear her to 
think she’s ever tiresome to people, and you know she’s very 
ready to fancy herself in the way. I think she would like to 

13 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


236 

shrink up to the size of a mouse, that she might run about and 
do people good without their noticing her.” 

“ It isn’t patience I want, God knows ; its lungs to speak 
loud enough. But you’ll be at home yourself, I suppose, this 
morning ; and you can talk to her for me.” 

“ No, mammy ; I promised poor Mrs. Lowme to go and 
sit with her. She’s confined to her room, and both the Miss 
Lowmes are out ; so I’m going to read the newspaper to her 
and amuse her.” 

“ Couldn’t you go another morning ? As Mr. Armstrong and 
that other gentleman are coming to dinner, I should think it 
would be bettft: to stay at home. Can you trust Betty to see 
to everything ? She’s new to the place.” 

“ Oh I couldn’t disappoint Mrs. Lowme ; I promised her. 
Betty, will do very well, no fear.” 

Old Mrs. Dempster was silent after this and began to sip 
her tea. The breakfast went on without further conversation 
for some time, Mr. Dempster being absorbed in the papers. 
At length, when he was running over the advertisements, his 
eye seemed to be caught by something that suggested a new 
thought to him. He presently thumped the table with an air of 
exultation, and said, turning to Janet, 

“ I’ve a capital idea, Gypsy ! ” (that was his name for his 
dark-eyed wife when he was in an extraordinarily good-hu- 
mor), “ and you shall help me. It’s just what you’re up to.” 

“What is it said Janet, her face beaming at the sound 
of the pet name, now heard so seldom. “ Anything to do with 
conveyancing ?” 

“ It’s a bit of fun worth a dozen fees — a plan for raising 
a laugh against Tryan and his gang of hypocrites.” 

“ What is it ? Nothing that wants a needle and thread; I 
hope, else I must go and tease mother.” 

“ No, nothing sharper than your wit — except mine. I’ll 
tell you what it is. We’ll get up a programme of the Sunday 
evening lecture, like a play-bill, you know — ‘ Grand Perform- 
ance of the celebrated Mountebank,’ and so on. We’ll bring 
in the Tryanites — old Landor and the rest — in appropriate 
characters. Proctor shall print it, and we’ll circulate it in the 
town It will be a capital hit.” 

“Bravo!” said Janet, clapping her hands. She would just 
then have pretended to like almost anything, in her pleasure 
at being appealed to by her husband, and she really did like 
to laugh at the Tryanites. “ We’ll set about it directly, and 
sketch it out before you go to the office. I’ve got Tryan’s 


JANET^S REPENTANCE. 


237 

sermons up stairs, but I don’t think there’s anything in them 
we can use. I’ve only just looked into them ; they’re not at 
all what I expected — dull, stupid things — nothing of the roar- 
ing fire-and-brimstone sort that I expected.” 

“ Roaring ? No ; Tryan’s as soft as a sucking dove — one 
of your honey-mouthed hypocrites. Plenty of devil and malice 
in him, though, 1 could see that, while he was talking to 
the Bishop ; but as smooth as a snake outside. He’s be- 
ginning a single-handed fight with me, I can see — persuading 
my clients away from me. We shall see who will be the first 
to cry peccavi. Milby will do better without Mr. Tryan than 
without Robert Dempster, I fancy ! and Milby shall never be 
flooded with cant as long as I can raise a breakwater against it. 
But now, get the breakfast things cleared away, and let-us set 
about the play-bill. Come, mamsey, come and have a walk 
with me round the garden, and let us see how the cucumbers 
are getting on. I’ve never taken you round the garden for 
an age. Come, you don’t want a bonnet. It’s like walking in 
a greenhouse this morning.” 

“But she will want a parasol,” said Janet. “There’s 
one on the stand against the garden-door, Robert.” 

The little old lady took her son’s arm with placid pleasure. 
She could barely reach it so as to rest upon it, but he in- 
clined a little towards her, and accommodated his heavy, 
long-limbed steps to her feeble pace. The cat chose to sun 
herself too, and walked close betide them, with tail erect, rub- 
bing her sleek sides against their legs, — too well fed to be 
excited by the twittering birds. The garden was of the 
grassy, shady kind, often seen attached to old houses in pro- 
vincial towns ; the apple-trees had had time to spread their 
branches very wide, the shrubs and hardy perennial plants 
had grown into a luxuriance that required constant trimming 
to prevent them from intruding on the space for walking. 
But the farther end, which united with green fields, was open 
and sunny. 

It was rather sad, and yet pretty, to see that little group 
passing out of the shadow into the sunshine, and out of the 
sunshine into the shadow again : sad, because this tender- 
ness of the son for the mother was hardly more than a nucleus 
of healthy life in an organ hardening by* disease, because 
the man who was linked in this way with an innocent past, 
had become callous in worldliness, fevered by sensuality, en- 
slaved by chance impulses \ pretty, because it showed how 
hard it is to kill the deep-down fibrous roots of human love 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


238 

and goodness — how the man from whom we make it our 
pride to shrink, has yet a close brotherhood with us through 
some of our most sacred feelings. 

As they were returning to the house, Janet met them, 
and said, “ Now, Robert, the writing things are ready. I 
shall be clerk, and Mat Paine can copy it out after.” 

Mammy once more deposited in her arm-chair, with her 
knitting in her hand, and the cat purring at her elbow, Janet 
seated herself at the table, while Mr. Dempster placed him- 
self near her, took out his snuff-box, and plentifully suffering 
himself with the inspiring powder, began to dictate. 

What he dictated we shall see by and by. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The next day, Friday, at five o’clock by the sun-dial, the 
large bow-window of Mrs. Jerome’s parlor was open • and 
that lady herself was seated within its ample semicircle, 
having a table before her on which her best tea-tray, her best 
china, and her best urn-rug had already been standing in 
readiness for half an hour. Mrs. Jerome’s best tea-service 
was of delicate w'hite fluted china, with gold sprigs upon it — 
as pretty a tea-service as you need wish to see, and quite 
good enough for chimney ornaments j indeed, as the cups 
were without handles, most visitors who had the distinction 
of taking tea out of them, wished that such charming china 
had already been promoted to that honorary position. Mrs. 
Jerome was like her china, handsome and old-fashioned. 
She was a buxom lady of sixty, in an elaborate lace cap fas- 
tened by a frill under her chin, a dark, well-curled front con- 
cealing her forehead, a snowy neckerchief exhibiting its ample 
folds as far as her waist, and a stiff gray silk gown. She had 
a clean damask napkin pinned before her to guard her dress 
during the process of tea making ; her favorite geraniums in 
the bow-window were looking as healthy as she could de- 
sire ; her own handsome portrait, painted when she was twen- 
ty years younger, was smiling down on her with agreeable 
flattery ; and altogether she seemed to be in as peaceful 
and pleasant a position as a buxom, well-dressed elderly lady 
need desire. But, as in so many other cases, appearances 


JANET^S REPENTANCE. 


239 

were deceptive. Her mind was greatly perturbed and her 
temper ruffled by the fact that it was more than a quarter 
past five even by the losing timepiece, that it was half past 
by her large gold watch, which she held in her hand as if she 
were counting the pulse of the afternoon, and that by the 
kitchen clock, which she felt sure was not an hour too fast, 
it had already struck six. The lapse of time was rendered 
the more unendurable to Mrs. Jerome by her wonder that 
Mr. Jerome could stay out in the garden with Lizzie in that 
thoughtless way, taking it so easily that tea-time was long 
past, and that, after all the trouble of getting down the best 
tea-things, Mr. Tryan would not come. 

This honor had been shown to Mr. Tryan, not at all be- 
cause Mrs. Jerome had any high appreciation of his doc- 
trine or of his exemplary activity as a pastor, but simply be- 
cause he was a “ Church clergyman,” and as such was re- 
garded by her with the same sort of exceptional respect that 
a white woman who had married a native of the Society Is- 
lands might be supposed to feel towards a white-skinned 
visitor from the land of her youth. For Mrs. Jerome had 
been reared a Churchwoman, and having attained the age of 
thirty before she was married, had felt the greatest repug- 
nance in the first instance to renouncing the religious forms 
in which she had been brought up. “ You know,” she said 
in confidence to her Church acquaintances, “ I wouldn’t give 
no ear at all to Mr. Jerome at fust ; but after all, I begun to 
think as there was a many things worse nor goin’ to chapel, 
an’ you’d better do that nor not pay your way. Mr. Jerome 
had a very pleasant manner with him, an’ there was niver 
another as kept a gig, an’ ’ud make a settlement on me like 
him, chapel or no chapel. It seemed very odd to me for a 
long while, the preachin’ without book, an’ the stannin’ up 
to one long prayer, istid o’ changin’ your postur. But la ! 
there’s nothin’ as you mayn’t get used to i’ time ; you can 
al’ys sit down, you know, before the prayer’s done. The 
ministers say pretty nigh the same things as the Church par- 
sons, by what I could iver make out. an’ we’re out o’ chapel 
i’ the mornin’ a deal sooner nor they’re out church. An’ 
as for pews, ours is a deal comfortabler nor any i’ Milby 
Church.” 

Mrs. Jerome, you perceive, had not a keen susceptibility 
to shades of doctrine, and it is probable that, after listening 
to Dissenting eloquence for thirty years, she might safely 
have re-entered the Establishment without performing any 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFz.. 


240 

spiritual quarantine. Her mind, apparently, was of that non- 
porous, flinty character which is not in the least danger from 
surrounding damp. But on the question of getting start nf 
the sun on the day’s business, and clearing her conscience of 
the necessary sum of meals and the consequent “ washing 
up ” as soon as possible, so that the family might be well in 
bed at nine, Mrs. Jerome was susceptible; and the present 
lingering pace of things, united with Mr. Jerome’s unac- 
countable obliviousness, was not to be borne any longer. So 
she rang the bell for Sally. 

“Goodness me, Sally! go into the garden an’ see after 
your master. Tell him it’s goin’ on for six, an’ Mr. Tryan 
’ull niver think o’ cornin’ now, an’ it’s time we got tea over. 
An’ he’s lettin’ Lizzie stain her frock, I expect, among them 
strawberry beds. Make her come in this minute.” 

No wonder Mr. Jerome was tempted to linger in the gar- 
den, for though the house was pretty and well deserved its 
name — “ the White House,” the tall damask roses that clus- 
tered over the porch being thrown into relief by rough stucco 
of the most brilliant white, 3’et the garden and orchards were 
Mr. Jerome’s glory, as well they might be; and there was 
nothing in which he had a more innocent pride — peace to a 
good man’s memory 1 ail his pride was innocent — than in con- 
ducting a hitherto uninitiated visitor over his grounds, and mak- 
ing him in some degree aware of the incomparable advantages 
possessed by the inhabitants of the White House in the matter 
of red-streaked apples, russets, northern greens (excellent 
for baking), swan-egg pears, and early vegetables, to say noth- 
ing of flowering “shrubs,” pink hawthorns, lavender bushes 
more than ever Mrs. Jerome could use, and, in short, a super- 
abundance of everything that a person retired from business 
could desire to possess himself or to share with his friends. 
The garden was one of those old-fashioned paradises which 
hardly exist any longer except as memories of our childhood : 
no finical separation between flower and kitchen garden there ; 
no monotony of enjoyment for one sense to the exclusion of 
another ; but a charming paradisiacal mingling of all that 
was pleasant to1;he eyes and good for food. The rich flower- 
border running along every walk, with its endless succession 
of spring flowers, anemones, auriculas, wall-flowers, sweet- 
williams, campanulas, snap dragons, and tiger-lilies, had its 
taller beauties, such as moss and Provence roses, varied with 
espalier apple-trees ; the crimson of a carnation was carried 
out in the lurking crimson of the neighboring strawberry-beds j 


241 


JJ. VET'S REPENTANCE. 

you gathered a moss-rose one moment and a bunch of currants 
the next : you were in a delicious fluctuation between the 
scent of jasmine and the juice of gooseberries. Then what a 
high wall at one end, flanked by a summer-house so lofty, 
that after ascending its long flight of steps you could see per- 
fectly well there was no view worth looking at ; what alcoves 
and garden-seats in all directions ; and along one side, what 
a hedge, tall, and firm, and unbroken, like a green wall ! 

It was near this hedge that Mr. Jerome was standing when 
Sally found him. He had set down the basket of strawberries 
on the gravel, and had lifted up little Lizzie in his arms to 
look at a bird’s nest. Lizzie peeped, and then looked at her 
grandpa with round blue eyes, and then peeped again. 

D’ye see it, Lizzie? ” he whispered. 

“Yes,” she whispered in return, putting her lips very near 
grandpa’s face. At this moment Sally appeared. 

“ Eh, eh, Sally, what’s the matter ? Is Mr. Tr}^an come ? ” 

“ No, sir, an’ Missis says she’s sure he won’t come now, an’ 
she wants you to come in an’ hev tea. Dear heart. Miss 
Lizzie, you’ve stained your pinafore, an’ I shouldn’t wonder 
if it’s gone through to your frock. There’ll be fine work ! 
Come alonk wi’ me, do.” 

“ Nay, nay, nay, we’ve done no harm, we’ve done no harm, 
hev we, Lizzie ? The wash-tub ’ll make all right again.” 

Sally, regarding the wash-tub from a different point of 
view, looked sourly serious, and hurried away with Lizzie, 
w'ho trotted submissively along, her Httle head in eclipse un- 
der a large nankin bonnet, while Mr. Jerome followed leis- 
urely with his full broad shoulders in rather a stooping pos- 
ture, and his large good-natured features and white locks 
shaded bv a broad-brimmed hat. 

“ Mr.' jerome, I wonder at you,” said Mrs. Jerome, in a 
tone of indi^^nant remonstrance, evidently sustained by a deep 
sense of injury, as her husband opened the parlor door. 
“When will you leave off invitin’ people to meals an’ not let- 
tin”em knoxWhe time ? I’ll answer for’t, you niver said a 
word to Mr. Tryan as we should take tea at five o’clock. It s 

just like you ! ” , , , . 

“ Nay, nay, Susan,” answered the husband in a soothing 
tone, “there’s nothin’ amiss. I told Mr. Tryan as^we took 
tea at five punctial ; mayhap summat’s a detainin on him. 
He’s a deal to do, an’ to think on, remember.” 

“ Why it’s struck six i’ the kitchen a’ready. It’s nonsense 
to look for him cornin’ now. So you may’s well ring for th’ 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


242 

urn. Now Sally’s got th’ heater in the fire, we may’s well 
hev th’ urn in, though he doesn’t come. 1 niver see’cl the 
like o’ you, Mr. Jerome, for axin’ people an’ givin’ me the 
trouble o’ gettin’ things down an’ hevin’ crumpets made, an’ 
after all they don’t come. I shall hev’’ to wash every one o’ 
these tea-things myself, for there’s no trustin’ Sally — she’d 
break a fortin i’ crockery i’ no time ! ” 

“ But why will you give yourself sich trouble, Susan ? Our 
every-day tea-things would ha’ done as well for Mr. Tryan, an’ 
they’re a deal convenenter to hold.” 

“Yes, that’s just your way, Mr. Jerome, you’re al’ys a- 
findin’ faut wi’ my chany, because I bought it myself afore I 
was married. But let me tell you, I knowed how to choose 
chany if I didn’t know how to choose a husband. An’ where’s 
Lizzie ? You’ve niver left her i’ the garden by herself, with 
her white frock on an’ clean stockins ? ” 

“ Be easy, my dear Susan, be easy ; Lizzie’s come in wi’ 
Sally. She’s hevin’ her pinafore took off. I’ll be bound. Ah! 
there’s Mr. Tryan a-comin’ through the gate.” 

Mrs. Jerome began hastily to adjust her damask napkin, 
and the expression of lier countenance for the reception of 
the clergyman, and Mr. Jerome went out to me t his guest, 
whom he greeted outside the door. 

“Mr. Tryan, how do you do, Mr. Tryan? Welcome to 
the White House ! I’m glad to see you, sir — I’m glad to see 
you.” 

If you had heard the tone of mingled good-will, venera- 
tion, and condolence in which this greeting was uttered, even 
without seeing the face that completely harmonized with it, 
you would have no difficulty in inferring the ground-notes of 
Mr. Jerome’s character. To a fine ear that tone said as 
plainly as possible — “ Whatever recommends itself to me, 
Thomas Jerome, as piety and goodness, shall have my love 
and honor. Ah friends, this pleasant world is a sad one, too, 
isn’t it ? Let us help one anotlier, let us help one another.” 
And it was entirely owing to this basis of character, not at all 
from any clear and precise doctrinal discrimination, that Mr. 
Jerome had very early in life became a Dissenter. In his 
boyish days he had been thrown where Dissent seemed to 
have the balance of piety, purity, and good works on its side, 
and to become a Dissenter seemed to him identical with 
choosing God instead of mammon. That race of Dissenters 
is extinct in these days, when opinion has got far ahead of 
feeling, and every chapel-going youth can fill our ears with 


/A ASET’S EE PEN TA NCE. 


243 

the advantages of the Voluntary system, the corruptions of a 
State Church, and the Scriptural evidence that the first Chris- 
tians were Congregationalists. Mr. Jerome knew nothing of 
this theoretic basis for Dissent, and in the utmost extent of 
his polemical discussion he had not gone farther than to 
question whether a Christian man was bound in conscience to 
distinguish Christmas and Easter by any peculiar observance 
beyond the eating of mince-pies and cheese-cakes. It seemed 
to him that all seasons were alike good for thanking God, 
departing from evil, and doing well, whereas it might be de- 
sirable to restrict the period for indulging in unwholesome 
forms of pastry. Mr. Jerome’s dissent being of this simple, 
non-polemical kind, it is easy to understand that the report 
he heard of Mr. Tryan as a good man and a powerful preach- 
er, who was stirring the hearts of the people, had been enough 
to attract him to the Paddiford Church, and that having felt 
himself more edified there than he had of late been under 
Mr. Stickney’s discourses at Salem, he had driven thither re- 
peatedly in the Sunday afternoons, and had sought an op- 
portunity of making Mr. Tryan’s acquaintance. The evening 
lecture was a subject of warm interest with him, and the op- 
position Mr. Tryan met with gave that interest a strong tinge 
of partisanship ; for there was a store of irascibility in Mr. 
Jerome’s nature which must find a vent somewhere, and in so 
kindly and upright a man could only find it in indignation 
against those whom he held to be enemies of truth and good- 
ness. Mr. Tryan had not hitherto been to the White House, 
but yesterday, meeting Mr. Jerome in the street, he had at 
once accepted the invitation to tea, saying there was some- 
thing he wished to talk about. He appeared worn and 
fatigued now, and after shaking hands with Mrs. Jerome, 
threw himself into a chair and looked out on the pretty gar- 
den with an air of relief. 

“ What a nice place you have here, Mr. Jerome ! I’ve not 
seen anything so quiet and pretty since I came to Milby. On 
Paddiford Common, where I live, you know, the bushes are 
all sprinkled with soot, and there’s never any quiet except in 
the dead of night.” 

“ Dear eeart ! dear heart ! That’s very bad — and for you, 
too, as hev to study. Wouldn’t it be better for you to be 
somewhere more out i’ the country like ? ” 

Oh no ! I should lose so much time in going to and fro, 
and besides I like to be among the people. I’ve no face to 
go and preach resignation to those poor things in their smoky 


244 


SC/tA^JtS OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


air and comfortless homes, when I come straight from every 
luxury myself. There are many things quite lawful for other 
men which a clergyman must forego if he would do any good 
in a manufacturing population like this.” 

Here the preparations for tea were crowned by the simul- 
taneous appearance of Lizzie and the crumpet. It is a pretty 
surprise, when one visits an elderly couple, to see a little fig- 
ure enter in a white frock with a blond head as smooth as 
satin, round blue eyes, and a cheek like an apple blossom, A 
toddling little girl is a centre of common feeling which makes 
the most dissimilar people understand each other : and Mr. 
Tryan looked at Lizzie with that quiet pleasure which is al- 
ways genuine. 

“ Here we are, hear we are ! ” said proud grandpapa. 
“ You didn’t think we’d got such a little gell as this, did you, 
Mr. Tryan ? Why, it seems butth’ other day since her mother 
was just such another. This is our little Lizzie, this is. 
Come an’ shake hands wi’ Mr. Tryan, Lizzie ; come.” 

Lizzie advanced without hesitation, and put out one hand, 
while she fingered her coral necklace with the other, and 
looked up into Mr. Tryan’s face with a reconnoitring gaze. 
He stroked the satin head, and said in his gentlest voice, 
“ How do you do, Lizzie ? will you give me a kiss ? ” She 
put up her little bud of a mouth, and then retreating a little 
and glancing down at her frock, said, 

“ Dit id my noo fock. I put it on ’tod you wad toming. 
Tally taid you wouldn’t ’ook at it.” 

“ Hush, hush, Lizzie, little gells must be seen and not 
heard,” said Mrs. Jerome ; while grandpapa, winking signifi- 
cantly, and looking radiant with delight at Lizzie’s extraor- 
dinarv promise of cleverness, set her up on her high cane- 
chair by the side of grandma, who lost no time in shielding 
the beauties of the new frock with a napkin. 

“ Well now, Mr. Tr}^an,” said Mr. Jerome, in a very serious 
tone, when tea had been distributed, “ let me hear how you’re 
a-goin’on about the lectur. When I was i’ the town yester- 
dav, T beared as there w^as pessecutin’ schemes a bein’ laid 
again’ you. I fear me those raskills ’ill mek things ver>' on- 
pleasant to you.” 

“ I’ve no doubt they will attempt it ; indeed, I quite ex- 
pect there will be a regular mob got up on Sunday evening, 
as there was when the delegates returned, on purpose to an- 
noy me and the congregation on our way to church.” 

“ Ah, they’re capible o’ anything, such men as Dempster 


r A NE T'S REPENTANCE. 


245 

an’ Bucld ; an’ Tomlinson backs ’em wi’ money, thoagh he 
can’t vvi’ brains. Howiver, Dempster’s lost one client by his 
wicked doins, an’ I’m deceived if he won’t lose more nor one. 
I little thought, Mr. Tryan, when I put my affairs into his 
hands twenty ’ear ago this Michaelmas, as he was to turn out 
a pessecutor o’ religion. I niver lighted on a cliverer, prom- 
isiner young man nor he was then. They talked of his bein’ 
fond of a extry glass now an’ then, but niver nothin’ like what 
he’s come to since. An’ it’s head-piece you must look for in 
a lawyer, Mr. Tryan, it’s head-piece. His wife, too, wasal’ys 
an uncommon favorite o’ mine — poor thing ! I hear sad 
stories about her now. But she’s druv to it, she’s druv to it, 
Mr. Tryan. A tender-hearted woman to the poor, she is, as 
iver lived ; an’ as pretty-spoken a woman as you need wish 
to talk to. Yes ! I’d al’ys a likin’ for Dempster an’ his wife, 
spite o’ iverything. But as soon as iver I beared o’ that dil- 
egate business, I says, says I, that man shall hev no more to 
do wi’ my affairs. It may put me t’ inconvenience, but I’ll 
encourage no man as pessecutes religion.” 

“ He is evidently the brain and hand of the persecution,” 
said Mr. Tryan. “ There may be a strong feeling against 
me in a large number of the inhabitants — it must be so from 
the great ignorance of spiritual things in this place. But I 
fancy there would have been no formal opposition to the 
lecture, if Dempster had not planned it. I am not myself the 
least alarmed at anything he can do ; he will find I am not 
to be cowed or driven away by insult or personal danger. 
God has sent me to this place, and, by His blessing. I’ll not 
shrink from anything I may have to encounter in doing His 
work among the people. But I feel it right to call on all 
those who know the value of the Gospel, to stand by me 
publicly. I think — and Mr. Dandor agrees with me — that it 
will be well for my friends to proceed with me in a body to 
the church on Sunday evening. Dempster, you know, has 
pretended that almost all the respectable inhabitants are op- 
posed to the lecture. Now, I wish that falsehood to be visi- 
bly contradicted. What do you think of the plan .> I have 
to-day been to see several of my friends, who will make a 
point of being there to accompany me, and will communicate 
with others on the subject.” 

“ I’ll make one, Mr. Tryan, I’ll make one. You shall not 
be wantin’ in any support as I can give. Before you come to 
it, sir, Milby was a dead an dark place ; you are the fust man 
i’ the church to my knowledge as has brought the word o* 


SCENES OF CLEF /CAL LIFE. 


246 

God home to the people ; an’ I’ll stan’ by you, sir, I’ll stan’ 
by you. I’m a Dissenter, Mr. Tryan; I’ve been a Dissenter 
ever sin’ I was fifteen ’ear old ; but show me good i’ the 
Church, an’ I’m a Churchman too. When I was a boy I 
lived at Tilston \ you mayn’t know the place j the best part 
o’ the land there belonged to Squire Sandeman \ he’d a club- 
foot, had Squire Sandeman — lost a deal o’ money by canal 
shares. Well, sir, as I was sayin’, I lived at Tilston, an’ the 
rector there was a terrible drinkin’, fox-huntin’ man ; you 
niver seed such a parish i’ your time for wickedness ; Milby’s 
nothin’ to it. Well, sir, my father was a workin’ man, an’ 
couldn’t afford to gi’ me ony eddication, so I went to a night- 
school as was kep’ by a Dissenter, one Jacob Wright ; an’ it 
was from that man, sir, as I got my little schoolin’ an’ my 
knowledge o’ religion. I went to chapel wi’ Jacob — he 
was a good man was Jacob — an’ to chapel I’ve been iver since. 
But I’m no enemy o’ the Church, sir, when the Church brings 
light to the ignorant and the sinful ; an’ that’s what you’re a- 
doin’, Mr. Tryan. Yes, sir. I’ll stan’ by you ; I’ll go to church 
wi’ you o’ Sunday evenin’.” 

“You’d far better stay at home, Mr. Jerome, if I may give 
my opinion,” interposed Mrs. Jerome. “ It’s not as I hevn’t 
ivery respect for you, Mr. Tryan, but Mr. Jerome ’ull do you 
no good bj^ his interferin’. Dissenters are not at all looked 
on i’ Milby, an’ he’s as nervous as iver he can be ; he’ll come 
back as ill as ill, an’ niver let me hev a wink o’ sleep all 
night.” 

Mrs. Jerome had been frightened at the mention of a mob, 
and her retrospective regard for the religious communion of 
her youth by no means inspired her with the temper of a 
martyr. Her husband looked at her with an expression of 
tender and grieved remonstrance, which might have been 
that of the patient patriarch on the memorable occasion 
when he rebuked his wife. 

“ Susan, Susan, let me beg on you not to oppose me, 
and put stumblin’-blocks i’ the way o’ doin’ what’s right. I 
can’t give up my conscience, let me give up what else I 
may.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Mr. Tryan, feeling slightly uncomfort- 
able, “ since you are not very strong, my dear sir, it will be 
well, as Mrs. Jerome suggests, that you should not run the 
risk of any excitement.” 

“ Say no more, Mr. Tryan. I’ll stan’ by you, sir. It’s my 
duty. It’s the cause o’ God, sir ; it’s the cause o’ God.” 


JANETS REPENTAA^CE. 


247 

Mr. Tryan obeyed his impulse of admiration and grati- 
tude, and put out his hand to the white-haired old man, say- 
ing, “ Thank you, Mr. Jerome, thank you.’' 

Mr. Jerome grasped the proffered hand in silence, and then 
threw himself back in his chair, casting a regretful look at 
his wife, which seemed to say, “Why don’t you feel with me, 
Susan ? ” 

The sympathy of this simple-minded old man was more 
precious to Mr. Tryan than any mere onlooker could have 
imagined. To persons possessing a great deal of that facile 
psychology which prejudges individuals by means of formu- 
lae, and casts them, without further trouble, into duly lettered 
pigeon-holes, the Evangelical curate might seem to be do- 
ing simply what all other men like to do — carrying out ob- 
jects which were identified not only with his theory, which 
is but a kind of secondary egoism, but also with the prima- 
ry egoism of his feelings. Opposition may become sweet to 
a man when he has christened it persecution : a self-obtru- 
sive, over-hasty reformer complacently disclaiming all merit, 
while his friends call him a martyr, has not in reality a ca- 
reer the most arduous to the fleshly mind. But Mr. Tryan 
was not cast in the mould of the gratuitous martyr. With 
a power of persistence which had been often blamed as ob- 
stinacy, he had an acute sensibility to the very hatred or 
ridicule he did not flinch from provoking. Every form of 
disapproval jarred him painfully ; and though he fronted his 
opponents manfully, and often with considerable warmth of 
temper, he had no pugnacious pleasure in the contest. It 
was one of the weaknesses of his nature to be too keenly 
alive to every harsh w'ind of opinion \ to wince under the 
frowns of the foolish; to be irritated by the injustice of 
those w'ho could not possibly have the elements indispensa- 
ble for judging him rightly ; and with all this acute sensi- 
bility to blame, this dependence on sympathy, he had for 
years been constrained into a position of antagonism. No 
w^onder, then, that good old Mr. Jerome’s cordial words were 
balm to him. He had often been thankful to an old woman 
for saying “ God bless you to a little child for smiling at 
him ; to a dog for submitting to be patted by him. 

Tea being over by this time, Mr. Tryan proposed a walk 
in the garden as a means of dissipating all recollection of the 
recent conjugal dissidence. Little Lizzie's appeal, “ Me go, 
grandpa !” could not be rejected, so she was duly bonneted 
and pinafored, and then they turned out into the evening sun- 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


243 

shine. Not Mrs. Terome, however ; she had a deeply-medi- 
tated plan of retiring ad mterim to the kitchen and washing 
up the best tea-things, as a mode of getting forward with the 
sadly-retarded business of the day. 

“ This way, Mr. Tryan, this way,” said the old gentleman ; 
“ I must take you to my pastur fust, an’ show you our cow — 
the best milker i’ the country. An’ see here at these back- 
buildin’s, how convenent the dairy is : I planned it ivery bit 
myself. An’ here I’ve got my little carpenter’s shop an’ my 
blacksmith’s shop ; I do no end o’ jobs here myself. I niver 
could bear to be idle, Mr, Tryan ; I must al’ys be at some- 
thin’ or other. It was lime for me to lay by business an’ 
mek room for younger folks. I’d got money enough, wi’ only 
one daughter to leave it to, an’ I says to myself, says I, it’s 
time to leave off moitherin’ myself wi’ this world so much, 
an’ give more time to thinkin’ of another. But there’s a many 
hours at ween getting up an’ lyin’ down, an’ thoughts are no 
cumber ; you can move about wi’ a good many on ’em in your 
head. See, here’s the pastur.” 

A very pretty pasture it was, where the large-spotted, 
short-horned cow quietly chewed the cud as she lay and 
looked sleepily at her admirers — a daintily-trimmed hedge 
all round, dotted here and there with a mountain-ash or a 
cherry-tree. 

“ I’ve a good bit more land besides this, worth your while 
to look at, but mayhap it’s farther nor you’d like to walk now. 
Bless you ! I’ve welly an acre o’ patato-ground yonders ; 
I’ve a good big family to supply, you know.” (Here Mr. 
Jerome winked and smiled significantly.) “An’ that puts 
me i’ mind, Mr Tryan, o’ summat I wanted to say to you. 
Clergymen like you, I know, see a deal more poverty an’ that, 
than other folks, an’ hev a many claims on ’em more nor they 
can well meet ; an’ if you’ll mek use o’ my purse any time, or 
let me know where I can be o’ any help. I’ll lek it very kind 
on you.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Jerome, I will do so, I promise you. I 
saw a sad case yesterday ; a collier — a fine broad-chested fel- 
low about thirty — was killed by the falling of a wall in the 
Paddiford colliery. I was in one of the cottages near, when 
they brought him home on a door, and the shriek of the wife 
has been ringing in my ears ever since. There are three lit- 
tle children. Happily the woman has her loom, so she will 
be able to keep out of the workhouse ; but she looks very del- 
icate.” 


JANET'S REPENTANCE. 


249 


“Give me her name, Mr. Tryan,” said Mr. Jerome, draw- 
ing out his pocket-book. “ I’ll call an’ see her.” 

Deep was the fountain of pity in the good old man’s 
heart ! He often ate his dinner stintingly, oppressed by the 
thought that there were men, women, and children, with no 
dinner to sit down to, and would relieve his mind by going 
out in the afternoon to look for some need that he could sup- 
ply, some honest struggle in which he could lend a helping 
hand. That any living being should want, was his chief sor- 
row ; that any rational being should waste, was the next. 
Sally, indeed, having been scolded by master for a too lavish 
use of sticks in lighting the kitchen fire, and various in- 
stances of recklessness with regard to candle-ends, considered 
him “ as mean as aeny think ; ” but he had as kindly a warmth 
as the morning sunlight, and, like the sunlight, his goodness 
shone on all that came in his way, from the saucy rosy-cheeked 
lad whom he delighted to make happy with a Christmas-box, 
to the pallid sufferers up dim entries, languishing under the 
tardy death of want and misery. 

It was very pleasant to Mr. Tryan to listen to the simple 
chat of the old man — to walk in the shade of the incompara- 
ble orchard, and hear the story of the crops yielded by the red- 
streaked apple-tree, and the quite embarrassing plentifulness 
of the summer-pears — to drink in the sweet evening breath 
of the garden, as they sat in the alcove — and so, for a short 
interval, to feel the strain of his pastoral task relaxed. 

Perhaps he felt the return to that task through the dusty 
roads all the more painfully, perhaps something in that quiet 
shady home had reminded him of the time before he had ta- 
ken on him the yoke of self-denial. The strongest heart will 
faint sometimes under the feeling that enemies are bitter, 
and that friends only know half its sorrows. The most reso- 
lute soul will now and then cast back a yearning look in 
treading the rough mountain-path, away from the greensward 
and laughing voices of the valley. However it was, in the 
nine o’clock twilight that evening, when Mr. Tryan had en- 
tered his small study and turned the key in the door, he 
threw himself into the chair before his writing-table, and, 
heedless of the papers there, leaned his face low on his hand, 
and moaned heavily. 

It is apt to be so in this life, I think. While we are coldly 
discussing a man’s career, sneering at his mistakes, blaming 
his rashness, and labelling his opinions — “ Evangelical an(l 
narrow,” or “ Latitudinarian and Pantheistic,” or “ Anglican 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


250 

and supercilious ” — that man, in his solitude, is perhaps shed- 
ding hot tears because his sacrifice is a hard one, because 
strength and patience are failing him to speak the difficult 
word, and do the difficult deed. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Mr. Tryan showed no such symptoms of weakness on the 
critical Sunday. He unhesitatingly rejected the suggestion 
that he should be taken to church in Mr. Landor’s carriage — 
a proposition which that gentleman made as an amendment 
on the original plan, when the rumors of meditated insult be- 
came alarming. Mr. Tryan declared he would have no pre^ 
cautions taken, but would simply trust in God and his good 
cause. Some of his more timid friends thought this conduct 
rather defiant than vdse, and reflecting that a mob has great 
talent for impromptu, and that legal redress is imperfect sat- 
isfaction for having one’s head broken with a brickbat, were 
beginning to question their consciences very closely as to 
whether it was not a duty they owed to their families to stay 
at home on Sunday evening. These timorous persons, how- 
ever, were in a small minority, and the generality of Mr. Try- 
an’s friends and hearers rather exulted in an opportunity of 
braving insult for the sake of a preacher to whom they were 
attached on personal as well as doctrinal grounds. Miss 
Pratt spoke of Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer, and observed 
that the present crisis afforded an occasion for emulating their 
heroism even in these degenerate times ; while less highly in- 
structed persons, whose memories were not well stored with 
precedents, simply expressed their determination, as Mr. Je- 
rome had done, to “stan’ by” the preacher and his cause, be- 
lieving it to be the “ cause of God.” 

On Sunday evening, then, at a quarter past six, Mr. Tryan, 
setting out from Mr. Landor’s with a party of his friends who 
had assembled there, was soon joined by two other groups 
from Mr. Pratt’s and Mr. Dunn’s ; and stray persons on their 
way to church naturally falling into rank behind this leading 
file, by the time they reached the entrance of Orchard Street, 
Mr. Tryan’s friends formed a considerable procession, walk- 
ing three or four abreast. It w^as in Orchard Street, and 
towards the church gates, that the chief crowd was collected ; 


JANET'S REPENTANCE, 


251 


and at Mr. Dempster’s drawing-room window, on the upper 
floor, a more select assembly of Anti-Tryanites were gathered 
to witness the entertaining spectacle of theTryanites walking 
to church amidst the jeers and hootings of the crowd. 

To prompt the popular wit with appropriate sobriquets, 
numerous copies of Mr. Dempster’s playbill were posted on 
liie walls, in suitably large and emphatic type. As it is pos- 
sible that the most industrious collector of mural literature 
may not have been fortunate enough to possess himself of 
this production, which ought by all means to be preserved 
amongst the materials of our provincial religious history, L 
subjoin a faithful copy. 

GRAND ENTERTAINMENT!!! 


To be given at Milby on Sunday evening next, by the 
Famous Comedian, TRY-IT-ON ! 

And his first-rate company, including not only an 
Unparalleled Cast for Comedy ! 

But a Large Collection of reclaimed and converted Animals; 

Among the rest 
A Bear who used to dance ' 

A Parrot, once given to S7vearing ! I 
• A Polygamous Pig ' ! 
and 

A Monkey who used to catch fleas on a Sunday ! ! ! ' 

Together with a 
Pair of regenerated Linnets ! 

With an entirely new song and flumage. 

Mr, Try it-on 

Will first pass through the streets, in procession, with his unrivalled Company, 
warranted to have their eyes turned up higher, and the corners of their mouths 
turned down lou<er, than any other company of Mountebanks in this circuit ! 

AFTER WHICH 

The Theatre will be opened, and the entertainment will 
commence at half-past six, 

When will be presented 

A piece, never before performed on any stage, entitled, 

THE WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING; 
or, 

The Methodist in a Mask. 


Mr Boanerges Soft Sawder Mr. Try-it-on, 

Old Ten-per-cent. Godly Mr. Gander. 

Dr. Feedemup Mr. Tonic. 

Mr. Lime-twig Lady-winner Mr. Try-it-on. 

Miss Piety Bait-the-hook Miss Tonic. 

Angelica • - Miss Seraphina Tonic, 

After which 

A miscellaneous Musical interlude, commencing with 
The Lamentations of Jerom-iah I 
In nasal recitative. 

To be followed by 
The favorite Cackling Quartette, 
by 

Two Hen-birds who are no chickens ' 

The well-known counter-tenor, Mr. Done and a Gander, 
lineally descended from the Goose that laid golden eggs ! 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


252 


To conclude with a 
Grand Chorus by the 
Entire Orchestra of Converted Animals ' ! 

But owing to the unavoidable absence (from illness) of the Bulldog., who has 
left off fighting., Mr. Tonic has kindly undertaken, at a moment’s notice, to supply 
the “ bark ' ” 


The whole to conclude with a 
Screaming Farce of 

THE PULPIT SNATCHER. 

Mr. Saintly Smooth-face Mr. Try-it-on f 

Mr. Worming Sneaker Mr. Try-it-on ! 1 

Mr. Ali-grace No-works Mr. Try-it-on 1 ! ! 

Mr. Elect-and-Chosen Apewell Mr, Try-it-on 111! 

Mr. Malevolent Prayerful Mr. Try-it-on ! ! ! ! ! 

Mr, Foist-himself-every where Mr. Try-it-on 1 ! ! ! ! ! 

Mr. Flout-the-aged Upstart Mr. Try-it-on 1 1 1 1 i ! ! 

Admission Free. A Collection will be made at the Doors. 

Vivat Rex ! 

This satire, though it presents the keenest edge of Milby 
wit, does not strike you as lacerating, I imagine. But hatred 
is like fire — it makes even light rubbish deadly. And Mr. 
Dempster’s sarcasms were not merely visible on the walls j 
they were reflected in the derisive glances, and audible in the 
jeering voices of the crowd. Through this pelting shower of 
nicknames and bad puns, with an ad libitiun accompaniment 
of groans, howls, hisses and hee-haws, but of no heavier mis- 
siles, Mr. Tryan walked pale and composed, giving his arm to 
old Mr. Landor, whose step was feeble. On the other side 
of him was Mr. Jerome, who still walked firmly though his 
shoulders were slightly bowed. 

Outwardly Mr. Tryan was composed, but inwardly he was 
suffering acutely from these tones of hatred and scorn. How- 
ever strong his consciousness of right, he found it no stronger 
armor against such weapons as derisive glances and virulent 
words, than against stones and clubs : his conscience was in 
repose, but his sensibility was bruised. 

Once more only did the Evangelical curate pass up Orchard 
Street followed by a train of friends ; once more only was 
there a crowd assembled to witness his entrance through the 
church gates. But that second time no voice was heard above 
a whisper, and the whispers were words of sorrow and bless- 
ing. That second time, Janet Dempster was not looking on 
in scorn and merriment ; her eyes were worn with grief and 
watching, and she was following her beloved friend and pas* 
tor to the grave. 


JAATE’rS REPENTANCE, 




CHAPTER X. 

History, we know, is apt to repeat itself, and to foist very 
old incidents upon us with only a slight change of costume. 
From the time of Xerxes downward, we have seen generals 
playing the braggadocio at the outset of their campaigns, and 
conquering the enemy with the greatest ease in after-dinner 
speeches. But events are apt to be in disgusting discrepancy 
with the anticipations of the most ingenious tacticians ; the 
difficulties of the expedition are ridiculously at variance with 
able calculations ; the enemy has the impudence not to fall 
into confusion as had been reasonably expected of him ; the 
mind of the gallant general begins to be distracted by news 
of intrigues against him at home, and, notwithstanding the 
handsome compliments he paid to Providence as his undoubt- 
ed patron before setting out, there seems every probability 
that the Te Deums will be all on the other side. 

So it fell out with Mr. Dempster in his memorable cam- 
paign against the Anti-Tryanites. After all the premature 
triumph of the return from Elmstoke, the battle of the Even- 
ing Lecture had been lost ; the enemy was in possession of 
the field ; and the utmost hope remaining was, that by a har- 
assing guerrilla warfare he might be driven to evacuate the 
country. 

For some time this sort of warfare was kept up with con- 
siderable spirit. The shafts of Milby ridicule were made 
more formidable by being poisoned with calumny ; and very 
ugly stories, narrated with circumstantial minuteness, were 
soon in circulation concerning Mr. Tryan and his hearers, 
from which stories it was plainly deducible that Evangelicalism 
led by a necessary consequence to hypocritical indulgence in 
vice. Some old friendships were broken asunder, and there 
were near relations who felt that religious differences, un- 
mitigated by any prospect of a legacy, were a sufficient ground 
for exhibiting their family antipathy. Mr. Budd harangued 
his workmen, and threatened them with dismissal if they or 
their families were known to attend the evening lecture ; and 
Mr. Tomlinson, on discovering that his foreman was a rank 
Tryanite, blustered to a great extent, and w'ould have cash- 
iered that valuable functionary on the spot, if such a retributive 
procedure had not been inconvenient. 


254 


SCENES OF CLEK/CAL LIFE, 


On the whole, however, at the end of a few months, the 
balance of substantial loss was on the side of the Anti- 
Tryanites. Mr. Pratt, indeed, had lost a patient or two 
besides Mr. Dempster’s family ; but as it was evident that 
Evangelicalism had not dried up the stream of his anecdote, 
or in the least altered his view of any lady’s constitution, it is 
probable that a change accompanied by so few outward and 
visible signs, was rather the pretext than the ground of his 
dismissal in those additional cases. Mr. Dunn was threat- 
eired with the loss of several good customers, Mrs. Phipps and 
Mrs. Lowme having set the example of ordering him to send 
in his bill ; and the draper began to look forward to his next 
stock-taking with an anxiety which was but slightly mitigated 
by the parallel his wife suggested between his own case and 
that of Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego, who were thrust 
into a burning fiery furnace. For, as he observed to her the 
next morning, with that perspicacity which belongs to the 
period of shaving, whereas their deliverance consisted in the 
fact that their linen and woollen goods were not consumed, 
his own deliverance lay in precisely the opposite result. But 
convenience, that admirable branch system from the main line 
of self-interest, makes us all fellow-helpers in spite of adverse 
resolutions. It is probable that no speculative or theological 
hatred would be ultimately strong enough to resist the per- 
suasive power of convenience : that a latitudinarian baker, 
whose bread was honorably free from alum, would command 
the custom of any dyspeptic Puseyite ; that an Arminian with 
the toothache would prefer a skilful Calvinistic dentist to a 
bungler stanch against the doctrines of Election and Final 
Perseverance, who would be likely to break the tooth in his 
head ; and that a Plymouth Brother, who had a well-furnished 
grocery shop in a favorable vicinage, would occasionally have 
the pleasure of furnishing sugar or vinegar to orthodox fami- 
lies that found themselves unexpectedly “ out of ” those indis- 
pensable commodities. In this persuasive power of conve- 
nience lay Mr. Dunn’s ultimate security from martyrdom. His 
drapery was the best in Milby ; the comfortable use and wont 
of procuring satisfactory articles at a moment’s notice proved 
too strong for Anti-Tryanite zeal ; and the draper could soon 
look forward to his next stock-taking without the support of a 
Scriptural parallel. 

On the other hand, Mr. Dempster had lost his excellent 
client, Mr. Jerome — a loss which galled him out of proportion 
to the mere monetary deficit it represented. The attorney 


/ANET^S REPENTANCE. 


255 

loved money, but be loved power still better. He had always 
been proud of having early won the confidence of a conven- 
ticle-goer, and of being able to “ turn the prop of Salem round 
his thumb.” Like most other men, too, he had a certain kind- 
ness towards those who had employed him when he was only 
starting in life ; and just as we do not like to part with an old 
weather-glass from our study, or a two-feet ruler that we have 
carried in our pocket ever since we began business, so Mr. 
Dempster did not like having to erase his old client’s name 
from the accustomed drawer in the bureau. Our habitual life 
is like a wall hung with pictures, which has been shone on by 
the suns of many years : take one of the pictures away, and it 
leaves a definite blank space, to which our eyes can never 
turn without a sensation of discomfort. Nay, the involuntary 
loss of any familiar object almost always brings a chill as from 
an evil omen ; it seems to be the first finger shadow of advan- 
cing death. 

From all these causes combined, Mr. Dempster could 
never think of his lost client without strong irritation, and 
the very sight of Mr. Jerome passing in the street was worm- 
wood to him. 

One day, when the old gentleman was coming up Orchard 
Street on his roan mare, shaking the bridle, and tickling her 
flank with the whip as usual, though there was a perfect mutual 
understanding that she was not to quicken her pace, Janet 
happened to be on her own door step, and he could not resist 
the temptation of stopping to speak to that “ nice little 
woman,” as he always called her, though she was taller than 
all the rest of his feminine acquaintances. Janet, in spite of 
her disposition to take her husband’s part in all public mat- 
ters, could bear no malice against her old friend ; so they 
shook hands. 

“ Well, Mrs. Dempster, I’m sorry to my heart not to see 
you sometimes, that I am,” said Mr. Jerome, in a plaintive 
tone. “ But if you’ve got any poor people as wants help, and 
you know’s deservin,’ send ’em to me, send ’em to me, just 
the same.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Jerome, that I will. Good-by.” 

Janet made their interview as short as she could, but it was 
not'short enough to escape the observation of her husband, 
who, as she feared, was on his mid-day return from his office 
at the other end of the street, and this offence of hers, in 
speaking to Mr. Jerome, was the frequently recurring theme 
of Mr. Dempster’s objurgatory domestic eloquence. 


256 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


Associating the loss of his old client with Mr. Tryan’s in^ 
fluence, Dempster began to know more distinctly why he hated 
the obnoxious curate. But a passionate hate, as well as a 
passionate love, demands some leisure and mental freedom. 
Persecution and revenge, like courtship and toadyism, will 
not prosper without a considerable expenditure of time and 
ingenuity, and these are not to spare with a man whose law- 
business and liver are both beginning to show unpleasant 
symptoms. Such was the disagreeable turn affairs were tak- 
ing with Mr. Dempster, and, like the general distracted by 
home intrigues, he was too much harassed himself to lay 
ingenious plans for harrassing the enemy. 

Meanwhile, the evening lecture drew larger and larger 
congregations ; not perhaps attracting many from that select 
aristocratic circle in which the Lowmes and Pittmans were 
predominant, but winning the larger proportion of Mr. 
Crewe’s morning and afternoon hearers, and thinning Mr. 
Stickney’s evening audience at Salem. Evangelicalism was 
making its way in Milby, and gradually diffusing its subtle 
odor into chambers that were bolted and barred against it. 
The movement, like all other religious “ revivals,” had a 
mixed effect. Religious ideas have the fate of melodies, which 
once set afloat in the world, are taken up by all sorts of in- 
struments, some of them wofully coarse, feeble, or out of tune, 
until people are in danger of crying out that the melody itself 
is detestable. It may be that some of Mr. Tryan’s hearers 
had gained a religious vocabulary rather than religious ex- 
perience ; that here and there a weaver’s wife, who, a few 
months before had been simply a silly slattern, was converted 
into that more complex nuisance, a silly and sanctimonious 
slattern ; that the old Adam, with the pertinacity of middle 
age, continued to tell fibs behind the counter notwithstanding 
the new Adam’s addiction to Bible-reading and family prayer : 
that the children in the Paddiford Sunday-school had their 
memories crammed with phrases about the blood of cleansing, 
imputed righteousness, and justification by faith alone, which 
an experience lying principally in chuck-farthing, hop-scotch, 
parental slappings, and longings after unattainable lollypop, 
served rather to darken than to illustrate ; and that at Milby, 
in those distant days, as in all other times and places where 
the mental atmosphere is changing, and men are inhaling the 
stimulus of new ideas, folly often mistook itself for wisdom, 
ignorance gave itself airs of knowledge, and selfishness, turn- 
ing its eyes upward, called itself religion. 


JANET'S REPENTANCE. 


257 

Nevertheless, Evangelicalism had brought into palpable 
existence and operation in Milby society that idea of duty, 
that recognition of something to be lived for beyond the mere 
satisfaction of self, which is to the moral life what the addi- 
tion of a great central ganglion is to animal life. No man 
can begin to mould himself on a faith or a.) idea without rising 
to a higher order of experience : a principle of subordination, 
of self-mastery, has been introduced into h nature ; he is no 
longer a mere bundle of impressions, desires, and impulses. 
Whatever might be the weaknesses of the ladies who pruned 
the luxuriance of their lace and ribbons, cut out garments for 
the poor, distributed tracts, quoted Scripture, and defined the 
true Gospel, they had learned this — that there was a divine 
work to be done in life, a rule of goodness higher than the 
opinion of their neighbors ; and if the notion of a heaven in 
reserve for themselves was a little too prominent, yet the 
theory of fitness for that heaven consisted in purity of heart, 
in Christ-like compassion, in the subduing of selfish desires. 
They might give the name of piety to much that was only 
puritanic egoism ; they might call many things sin that were 
not sin ; but they had at least the feeling that sin was to be 
avoided and resisted, and color-blindness, which may mistake 
drab for scarlet, is better than total blindness, which sees no 
distinction of color at all. Miss Rebecca Linnet, in quiet 
attire, with a somewhat excessive solemnity of countenance, 
teaching at the Sunday-school, visiting the poor, and striving 
after a standard of purity and goodness, had surely more moral 
loveliness than in those flaunting peony-days, when she had 
no other model than the costumes of the heroines in the 
circulating library. Miss Eliza Pratt, listening in rapt atten- 
tion to Mr. Tryan’s evening lecture, no doubt found evangel- 
ical channels for vanity and egoism ; but she was clearly in 
moral advance of Miss Phipps giggling under her feathers at 
old Mr. Crewe’s peculiarities of enunciation. And even elderly 
fathers and mothers, with minds, like Mrs. Linnet’s, too tough 
to imbibe much doctrine, were the better for having their 
hearts inclined towards the new preacher as a messenger 
from God. They became ashamed, perhaps, of their evil 
tempers, ashamed of their worldliness, ashamed of their 
trivial, futile past. The first condition of human goodness is 
something to love ; the second, something to reverence. And 
this latter precious gift was brought to Milby by Mr. Tryan 
and Evangelicalism. 

Yes, the movement was good, though it had that mixture 

17 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


258 

of folly and evil v^^hich often makes vsrhat is good an offence 
to feeble and fastidious minds, who want human actions and 
characters riddled through the sieve of their own ideas, before 
they can accord their sympathy or admiration. Such minds, 
I dare say, would have found Mr. Tryan’s character very 
much in need of that riddling process. The blessed work of 
helping the world forward, happily does not wait to be done 
by perfect men and I should imagine that neither Luther 
nor John Bunyan, for example, would have satisfied the mod- 
ern demand for an ideal hero, who believes nothing but what 
is true, feels nothing but what is exalted, and does nothing 
but what is graceful. The real heroes, of God’s making, are 
quite different : they have their natural heritage of love and 
conscience which they drew in with their mother’s milk ; they 
know one or two of those deep spiritual truths which are only 
to be won by long wrestling with their own sins and their own 
sorrows ; they have earned faith and strength so fai as they 
have done genuine work ; but the rest is dry, barren theory, 
blank prejudice, vague hearsay. Their insight is blended 
with mere opinion ; their sympathy is perhaps confined in nar- 
row conduits of doctrine, instead of flowing forth with the 
freedom of a stream that blesses every weed in its course ; 
obstinacy or self-assertion will often interfuse itself with their 
grandest impulses ; and their very deeds of self-sacrifice are 
sometimes only the rebound of a passionate egoism. So it 
was with Mr. Tryan : and any one looking at him with the 
bird’s-eye glance of a critic might perhaps say that he made 
the mistake of identifying Christianity with a too narrow doc- 
trinal system ; that he saw God’s work too exclusively in an- 
tagonism to the world, the flesh, and the devil ; that his in- 
tellectual culture was too limited — and so on ; making Mr. 
Tryan the text for a wise discourse on the characteristics of 
the Evangelical school in his day. 

But I am not poised at that lofty height. I am on the 
level and in the press with him, as he struggles his way along 
the stony road through the crowd of unloving fellow-men. He 
is stumbling, perhaps ; his heart now beats fast with dread, 
now heavily with anguish ; his eyes are sometimes dim with 
tears, which he makes haste to dash away ; he pushes man- 
fully on, with fluctuating faith and courage, with a sensitive 
failing body ; at last he falls, the struggle is ended, and the 
crowd closes over the space he has left. 

“One of the Evangelical clergy, a disciple of Venn,” says 
the critic from his bird’s-eye station. “ Not a remarkable 


/ANE'rS REPENTANCE. 


259 

specimen ; the anatomy and habits of his species have been 
determined long ago.” 

Yet surely, surely the only true knowledge of our fellow- 
man is that which enables us to feel with him — which gives us 
,a line ear for the heart-pulses that are beating under the mere 
clothes of circumstance and opinion. Our subtlest analysis 
of schools and sects must miss the essential truth, unless it 
be lit up by the love that sees in all forms of human thought 
and work the life and death struggles of separate human 
beings. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Mr. Tryan’s most unfriendly observers were obliged to 
admit that he gave himself no rest. Three sermons on Sun- 
day, a night-school for young men on Tuesday, a cottage-lec- 
ture on Thursday, addresses to school-teachers, and catechis- 
ing of school-children, with pastoral visits, multiplying as his 
influence extended beyond his own district of Paddiford Com- 
mon, would have been enough to tax severely the powers of 
a much stronger man. Mr. Pratt remonstrated with him on 
his imprudence, but could not prevail on him so far to econ- 
omize time and strength as to keep a horse. On some ground 
or other, which his friends found difficult to explain to thern- 
selves, Mr. Tryan seemed bent on wearing himself out. His 
enemies were at no loss to account for such a course. The 
Evangelical curate’s selfishness was clearly of too bad a kind 
to exhibit itself after the ordinary manner of a sound, respect- 
able selfishness. “ He wants to get the reputation of a saint, ’ 
said one ; “ He’s eaten up with spiritual pride,” said another ; 
“ He’s got his eye on some fine living, and wants to creep up 
the Bishop’s sleeve,” said a third. 

Mr. Stickney, of Salem, who considered all voluntary dis- 
comfort as a remnant of the legal spirit, pronounced a severe 
condemnation on this self-neglect, and expressed his fear that 
Mr Tryan was still far from having attained true Christian 
liberty. Good Mr. Jerome- eagerly seized this doctrinal view 
of the subject as a means of enforcing the suggestions of his 
own benevolence j and one cloudy afternoon, in the end^ of 
November, he mounted his roan mare with the determination 


26 o 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


of riding to Paddiford and “ arguying ’’ the point with Mr. 
Tryan. 

The old gentleman’s face looked very mournful as he rode 
along the dismal Paddiford lanes, between rows of grimy 
houses, darkened with hand-looms, while the black dust was 
whirled about him by the cold November wind. He was 
thinking of the object which had brought him on this after- 
noon ride, and his thoughts, according to his habit when alone, 
found vent every now and then in audible speech. It seemed 
to him, as his eyes rested on this scene of Mr. Tryan’s labors, 
that he could understand the clergyman’s self-privation with- 
out resorting to Mr. Stickney’s theory of defective spiritual 
enlightenment. Do not philosophic doctors tell us that we 
are unable to discern so much as a tree, except by an uncon- 
scious cunning which combines many past and separate sen- 
sations ; that no one sense is independent of another, so that 
in the dark we can hardly taste a fricassee, or tell whether our 
pipe is alight or not, and the most intelligent boy, if accom- 
modated with claws or hoofs instead of fingers, would be 
likely to remain on the lowest form ? If so, it is easy to un- 
derstand that our discernment of men’s motives must depend 
on the completeness of the elements we can bring from our 
own susceptibility and our own experience. See to it, friend, 
before you pronounce a too hasty judgment, that your own 
moral sensibilities are not of a hoofed or clawed character. 
The keenest eye will not serve, unless you have the delicate 
fingers, with their subtle nerve filaments, which elude scien- 
tific lenses, and lose themselves in the invisible world of hu- 
man sensations. 

As for Mr. Jerome, he drew the elements of his moral vis- 
ion from the depths of his veneration and pity. If he him- 
self felt so much for these poor things to whom life was so 
dim and meagre, what must the clergyman feel who had un- 
dertaken before God to be their shepherd ? 

“ Ah ! ” he whispered, interruptedly, “ it’s too big a load 
for his conscience, poor man ! He wants to mek himself their 
brother, like ; can’t abide to preach to the fastin’ on a full 
stomach. Ah ! he’s better nor we are, that’s it — he’s a deal 
better nor we are.” 

Here Mr. Jerome shook his bridle violently, and looked 
up with an air of moral courage, as if Mr. Stickney had been 
present, and liable toTake offence at this conclusion. A few 
minutes more brought him in front of Mrs. Wagstaff’s, where 
Mr. Tryan lodged. He had often been here before, so that 


/ANE'rS EEFENTANCE. 


261 


the contrast between this ugly square brick house, with its 
shabby bit of grass-plot, stared at all round by cottage win- 
dows, and his own pretty white home, set in a paradise of 
orchard and garden and pasture, was not new to him j but he 
felt it with fresh force to-day, as he slowly fastened his roan 
by the bridle to the wooden paling, and knocked at the door. 
Mr. Tryan was at home, and sent to request that Mr. Jerome 
would walk up into his study, as the fire was out in the parlor 
below. 

At the mention of a clergyman's study, perhaps your too 
active imagination conjures up a perfect snuggery, where the 
general air of comfort is rescued from a secular character by 
strong ecclesiastical suggestions in the shape of the furniture, 
the pattern of the carpet, and the prints on the wall ; where, 
if a nap is taken, it is in an easy-chair with a Gothic back, 
and the very feet rest on a warm and velvety simulation of 
church windows ; where the pure art of rigorous English Prot- 
estantism smiles above the mantel-piece in the portrait of an 
eminent bishop, or a refined Anglican taste is indicated by a 
German print from Overbeck ; where the walls are lined with 
choice divinity in sombre binding, and the light is softened 
by a screen of boughs with a gray church in the background. 

But I must beg you to dismiss all such scenic prettiness, 
suitable as they may be to a clergyman’s character and com- 
plexion ; for I have to confess that Mr. Tryan’s study was a 
very ugly little room indeed, with an ugly slap-dash pattern 
on the walls, an ugly carpet on the floor, and an ugly view 
of cottage roofs and cabbage-gardens from the window. His 
own person, his writing-table, and his book-case, were the 
only objects in the room that had the slightest air of refine- 
ment ; and the sole provision for comfort was ^ a clumsy 
straight-backed arm-chair, covered with faded chintz. The 
man who could live in such a room, unconstrained by poverty, 
must either have his vision fed from within by an intense 
passion, or he must have chosen that least attractive form of 
self-mortification which wears no haircloth and has no meagre 
days, but accepts the vulgar, the commonplace, and the ugly, 
whenever the highest duty seems to lie among them. 

Mr. Tryan, I hope you’ll excuse me disturbin’ on you,” 
said Mr. Jerome. “ But I’d summat particler to say.” 

“You don’t disturb me at all, Mr. Jerome ; I’m very glad 
to have a visit from you,” said Mr. Tryan, shaking him heart- 
ily by the hand, and offering him the chintz-covered “easy ” 


262 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


chair ; “it is some time since I’ve had an opportunity of see- 
ing you, except on a Sunday.” 

“ Ah, sir ! your tine’s so taken up, I’m well aware o’ that ; 
it’s not only wnat you hev to do, but it’s goin’ about from place 
to place ; an’ you don’t keep a boss, Mr. Tryan. You don’t 
take care enough o’ yourself — ^you don’t indeed, an’ that’s 
what 1 come to talk to y’ about.” 

“ That’s very good of you, Mr. Jerome ; but I assure you 
I think walking does me no harm. It is rather a relief to me 
after speaking or writing. You know I have no great circuit 
to make. The farthest distance I have to walk is to Milby 
Church, and if ever I want a horse on a Sunday, I hire 
Radley’s, who lives not many hundred yards from me.” 

“ Well, but now ! the winter’s cornin’ on, an’ you’ll get wet 
i’ your feet, an’ Pratt tells me as your constitution’s dillicate, 
as anybody may see, for the matter o’ that, wi’out bein’ a 
doctor. An’ this is the lig.ht I look at it in, Mr. Tryan : who’s 
to fill up your place, if you was to be disabled, as 1 may say ? 
Consider what a valuable life yours is. You’ve begun a great 
work i’ Milby, and so you might carry it on, if you’d your 
health and strength. The more care you take o’ yourself, the 
the longer you’ll live, belike, God willing, to do good to your 
fellow ere aturs.” 

“ Why, my dear Mr. Jerome, I think I should not be a 
long-lived man in any case ; and if I were to take care of my- 
self under the pretext of doing more good, I should very 
likely die and leave nothing done after all.” 

“ Well ! but keepin’ a boss wouldn’t hinder you from 
woikin’. It ’ud help you to do more, though Pratt says as it’s 
usin’ your voice so constant as does you the most harm. Now, 
isn’t it — I’m no scholard, Mr. Tryan, an’ I’m not a-goin’ to 
dictate to you — but isn’t it a’most a-killin’ o’ yourself, to go 
on a’ that way beyond your strength ? We mustn’t fling our 
lives away.” 

“ No, not fling them away lightly, but we are permitted to 
lay down our lives in a right cause. There are many duties, 
as you know, Mrs. Jerome, which stand before taking care of 
our own lives.” 

“ Ah ! I can*'t arguy wi’ you, Mr. Tryan ; but what I 
wanted to say’s this — There’s my little chacenut boss ; I 
should take it quite a kindness if you’d hev him through the 
winter an’ ride him. I’ve thought o’ sellin’ him a many times, 
for Mrs. Jerome can’t abide him ; and what do I want wi’two 
nags ? But I’m fond o’ the little chacenut, an’ I shouldn’t like 


JANET'S EEPENTANCE. 


263 

to sell him. So if you’ll only ride him for me, you’ll do me a 
kindness — you will, indeed, Mr. Tryan.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Jerome. I promise you to ask for him 
when I feel that 1 want a nag. There is no man I would more 
gladly be indebted to than you ; but at present I would rather 
not have a horse. I should ride him very little, and it would 
be an incovenience to me to keep him rather than otherwise.” 

Mr. Jerome looked troubled and hesitating, as if he had 
something on his mind that would not readily shape itself into 
words. At last he said, “ You’ll excuse me, Mr. Tryan, I 
wouldn’t be takin’ a liberty, but I know what great claims you 
hev on you as a clergyman. Is it the ex^Dense, Mr. Tryan ^ 
is it the money ? ” 

“ No, my dear sir. I have much more than a single man 
needs. My way of living is quite of my own choosing, and I 
am doing nothing but what 1 feel bound to do, quite apart 
from money considerations. We cannot judge for one another, 
you know ; we have each our peculiar weakness and tempta- 
tions. I quite admit that it might be right for another man 
to allow himself more luxuries, and I assure you I think it no 
superiority in myself to do without them. On the contrary, 
if my heart were less rebellious, and if I were less liable to 
temptation, I should not need that sort of self-denial. But,” 
added Mr. Tryan, holding out his hand to Mr. Jerome, “ I 
understand your kindness, and bless you for it. If I want a 
horse, I shall ask for the chestnut.” 

Mr. Jerome was obliged to rest contented with this prom- 
ise, and rode home sorrowfully, reproaching himself with 
not having said one thing he meant to say when setting out, 
and with having “ clean forgot ” the arguments he had in- 
tended to quote from Mr. Stickney. 

Mr. Jerome’s was not the only mind that was seriously 
disturbed by the idea that the curate was over-working him- 
self. There were tender women’s hearts in which anxiety 
about the state of his affections was beginning to be merged 
in anxiety about the state of his health. Miss Eliza Pratt 
had at one time passed through much sleepless cogitation on 
the possibility of Mr. Tryan’s being attached to some lady 
at a distance — at Laxeter, perhaps, where he had formerly 
held a curacy ; and her fine eyes kept close watch lest any 
symptom of engaged affections on his part should escape her. 
It seemed an alarming tact that his handkerchiefs were beau- 
tifully marked with hair, until she reflected that he had an 
unmarried sister of whom he spoke with much affection as 


SCENES GF CLERICAL LIFE. 


264 

his father’s companion and comforter. Besides, Mr. Tryan 
had never paid any distant visit, except one for a few days 
to his father, and no hint escaped him of his intending to 
take a house, or change his mode of living. No ! he could 
not be engaged, though he might have been disappointed. 
But this latter misfortune is one from which a devoted cler- 
gyman has been known to recover, by the aid of a fine pair 
of gray eyes that beam on him with affectionate reverence. 
Before Christmas, however, her cogitations began to take 
another turn. She heard her father say very confidently 
that “Tryan was consumptive, and if he didn’t take more 
care of himself, his life would not be worth a year’s purchase 
and shame at having speculated on suppositions that were 
likely to prove so false, sent poor Miss Eliza’s feelings with 
all the stronger impetus into the one channel of sorrowful 
alarm at the prospect of losing the pastor who had opened to 
her a new life of piety and self-subjection. It is a sad weak- 
ness in us, after all, that the thought of a man’s death hallows 
him anew to us ; as if life were not sacred too — as if it were 
comparatively a light thing to fail in love and reverence to 
the brother who has to climb the whole toilsome steep with 
us, and all our tears and tenderness were due to the one who 
is spared that hard journey. 

The Miss Linnets, too, were beginning to take a new view 
of the future, entirely uncolored by jealousy of Miss Eliza 
Pratt. 

“ Did you notice,” said Mary, one afternoon when Mrs. 
Pettifer was taking tea with them — “ did you notice that 
short dry cough of Mr. Tryan’s yesterday? I think he looks 
worse and worse every week, and I only wish I knew his sis- 
ter; I would write to her about him. I’m sure something 
should be done to make him give up part of his work, and he 
will listen to no one here.” 

“ Ah,” said Mrs. Pettifer, “ it’s a thousand pities his father 
and sister can’t come and live with him, if he isn’t to marry. 
But I wish with all my heart he could have taken to some 
nice woman as would have made a comfortable home for him. 
I used to think he might take to Eliza Pratt; she’s a good 
girl, and very pretty ; but I see no likelihood of it now,” 

“ No, indeed,” said Rebecca, with some emphasis ; “ Mr. 
Tryan’s heart is not for any woman to win; it is all given to 
his work ; and I could never wish to see him with a young 
inexperienced wife who would be a.drag on him instead of a 
helpmate.” 


JANET^S REPENTANCE^ 


265 

“ He’d need have somebody, young or old,” observed Mrs. 
Linnet, to see as he wears a flannel wescoat, an’ changes his 
stockins when he comes in. It’s my opinion he got that 
cough wi’ sittin’ i’ wet shoes and stockins \ an’ that Mrs. Wag- 
staff’s a poor addle-headed thing \ she doesn’t half tek care 
on him.” 

“ Oh mother ! ” said Rebecca, “ she’s a very pious woman. 
And I’m sure she thinks it too great a privilege to have Mr. 
Tryan with her, not to do the best she can to make him com- 
fortable. She can’t help her rooms being shabby.” 

“ I’ve nothing to say again’ her piety, my dear ; but I 
know very well I shouldn’t like her to cook my victual. 
When a man comes in hungiy an' tired, piety won’t feed him, 
I reckon. Hard carrots ’ull lie heavy on his stomach, piety 
or no piety. I called in one day when she was dishin’ up Mr. 
Tryan’s dinner, an’ I could see the potatoes was as watery as 
watery. It’s right enough to be speritial — I’m no enemy to 
that ; but I like my potatoes mealy. I don’t see as anybody 
’ull go to heaven the sooner for not digestin’ their dinner — 
providin’ they don’t die sooner, as mayhap Mr. Tryan will, 
poor dear man ! ” 

“ It will be a heavy day for us all when that comes to 
pass,” said Mrs. Pettifer “ We shall never get anybody to 
fill up that gap. There’s the new clergyman that’s just come 
to Shepperton— Mr. Parry ; I saw him the other day at Mrs. 
Bond’s. He may be a very good man, and a fine preacher ; 
they say he is ; but I thought to my«elf. What a difference 
between him and Mr. Tryan ! He’s a sharp-sort-of-looking 
man, and hasn’t that feeling way with him that Mr. Tryan 
has. What is so wonderful to me in Mr. Tryan is the way 
he puts himself on a level with one, and talks to one like a 
brother. I’m never afraid of telling him anything. He never 
seems to look down on anybody. He knows how to lift up 
those that are cast down, if ever man did.” 

“ Yes,” said Mary. “ And when I see all the faces turned 
up to him in Paddiford Church, I often think how hard it 
would be for any clergyman who had to come after him ; he 
has made the people love him so.” 


266 


SCAWA'S OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


CHAPTER XII. 

In her occasional visits to her near neighbor Mrs. Petti- 
fer, too old a friend to be shunned because she was a Tryan- 
ite, Janet was obliged sometimes to hear allusions to Mr. 
Tryan, and even to listen to his praises, which she usually 
met with playful incredulity. 

“ Ah, well,” she answered one day, “ I like dear old Mr. 
Crewe and his pipes a great deal better than your Mr. Tryan 
and his Gospel. When I was a little toddle, Mr. and Mrs. 
Crewe used to let me play about in their garden, and have a 
swing between the great elm-trees, because mother had no 
garden. I like people who are kind ; kindness is my religion ; 
and that’s the reason I like you, dear Mrs. Pettifer, though 
you are a Tryanite.” 

“But that’s Mr. Tryan’s religion too — at least partly. 
There’s nobody can give himself up more to doing good 
amongst the poor ; and he thinks of their bodies too, as well 
as their souls.” 

“ Oh yes, yes ; but then he talks about faith, and grace, 
and all that, making people believe they are better than 
others, and that God loves them more than He does the rest 
of the world. I know he has put a great deal of that into 
Sally Marlin’s head, and it has done her no good at all. She 
was as nice, honest, patient a girl as need be before ; and 
now she fancies she has new light and new wisdom. I don’t 
like those notions.” 

“You mistake him, indeed you do, my dear Mrs. Demp- 
ster ; I wish you’d go and hear him preach.” 

“ Hear him preach ! Why, you wicked woman, you would 
])ersuade me to disobey my husband, would you ? Oh, shock- 
ing ! I shall run away from you. Good-by.” 

A few days after this conversation, however, Janet went to 
Sally Martin’s about three o’clock in the afternoon. The 
pudding that had been sent in for herself and “ Mammy ” 
struck her as just the sort of delicate morsel the poor con- 
sumptive girl would be likely to fancy, and in her usual im- 
pulsive way she had started up from the dinner-table at once, 
put on her bonnet, and set off with a covered plateful to the 
neighboring street. When she entered the house there was 
no one to be seen ; but in the little side room where Sally lay, 
Sanet heard a voice. It was one she had not heard before, 


JANETS REPENTANCE 


267 

but she immediately guessed it to be Mr. Tryan’s. Her first 
impulse was to set clown her plate and go away, but Mrs. 
Martin might not be in, and then there would be no one to 
give Sally that delicious bit of pudding. So she stood still, 
and was obliged to hear what Mr. Tryan was saying. He 
was interrupted by one of the invalid’s violent fits of cough- 
ing. 

“ It is very hard to bear, is it not ? ” he said when she 
was still again. “Yet God seems to support you under it 
wonderfully. Pray for me, Sally, that I may have strength 
too when the hour of great suffering comes. It is one of my 
worst weaknesses to shrink from bodily pain, and I think the 
time is perhaps not far off when I shall have to bear what you 
are bearing. But now I have tired you. We have talked 
enough. Good-by.” 

Janet was surprised, and forgot her wish not to encounter 
Mr. Tryan ; the tone and the words were so unlike what she 
had expected to hear. There was none of the self-satisfied 
unction of the teacher, quoting, or exhorting, or expounding, 
for the benefit of the hearer, but a simple appeal for help, a 
confession of weakness. Mr. Tryan had his deeply-felt 
troubles, then? Mr. Tryan, too, like herself, knew what it 
was to tremble at a foreseen trial — to shudder at an impend- 
ing burthen, heavier than he felt able to bear ? 

The most brilliant deed of virtue could not have in- 
clined Janet’s good-will towards Mr. Tryan so much as this 
fellowship in suffering, and the softening thought was in her 
eyes when he appeared in the doorway, pale, weary, and de- 
pressed. The sight of Janet standing there with the entire 
absence of self-consciousness which belongs to a new and vivid 
impression, made him start and pause a little. Their eyes 
met, and they looked at each other gravely for a few moments. 
Then they bowed, and Mr. Tryan passed out. 

There is a power in the direct glance of a sincere and lov- 
ing human soul, which will do more to dissipate prejudice and 
kindle charity than the most elaborate arguments. The full- 
est exposition of Mr. Tryan’s doctrine might not have sufficed 
to convince Janet that he had not an odious self-complacency 
in believing himself a peculiar child of God ; but one direct, 
pathetic look of his had dissociated him with that conception 
forever. 

This happened late in the autumn, not long before Sally 
Martin died. Janet mentioned her new impression to no one, 
for she was afraid of arriving at a still more complete contra- 


268 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


diction of her former ideas. * We have all of us considerable 
regard for our past self, and are not fond of casting reflec- 
tions on that respected individual by a total negation of his 
opinions. Janet could no longer think of Mr. Tryan with- 
out sympathy, but she still shrank from the idea of becoming 
his hearer and admirer. That was a rev-ersal of the past 
which was as little accordant with her inclination as her cir- 
cumstances. 

And indeed this interview with Mr. Tryan was soon thrust 
into the background of poor Janet’s memory by the daily 
thickening miseries of her life. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The loss of Mr. Jerome as a client proved only the begin- 
ning of annoyances to Dempster. That old gentleman had 
in him the vigorous remnant of an energy and perseverance 
which had created his own fortune ; and being, as I have 
hinted, given to chewing the cud of a righteous indignation 
with considerable relish, he was determined to carry on his 
retributive war against the presecuting attorney. Having 
some influence with Mr. Pryme, who was one of the most 
substantial rate-payers in the neighboring parish of Dingley, 
and who had himself a complex and long-standing private 
account with Dempster, Mr. Jerome stirred up this gentleman 
to an investigation of some suspicious points in the attorney’s 
conduct of the parish affairs. The natural consequence was 
a personal quarrel between Dempster and Mr. Pryme ; the 
client demanded his account, and then followed the old story 
of an exorbitant lawyers bill, with the unpleasant anti climax 
of taxing. 

These disagreeables, extending over many months, ran 
along side by side with the pressing business of Mr. Arm- 
strong’s law-suit, which was threatening to take a turn rather 
depreciatory of Dempster’s professional prevision ; and it is 
not surprising that, being thus kept in a constant state of irri- 
tated excitement about his own affairs, he had little time for 
the further exhibition of his public spirit, or for rallying 
the forlorn hope of sound churchmanship against cant and 
hypocrisy. Not a few persons who had a grudge against him 
began to remark, with satisfaction, that “ Dempster’s luck 


JANET^S REPENTANCE. 


269 

was forsaking him ; ” particularly Mrs. Linnet, v/ho thought 
she saw distinctly the gradual ripening of a providential 
scheme, whereby a just retribution would be wrought on the 
man who had deprived her of Pye's Croft. On the other hand, 
Dempster’s well-satisfied clients, who Were of opinion that the 
punishment of his wickedness might conveniently be deferred 
to another world, noticed with some concern that he was 
drinking more than ever, and that both his temper and his 
driving were becoming more furious. Unhappily those addi- 
tional glasses of brandy, that exasperation of loud-tongued 
abuse, had other elfects than any that entered into the con- 
templation of anxious clients : they were the little superadded 
symbols that were perpetually raising the sum of home 
misery. 

Poor Janet! how heavily the months rolled on for her, 
laden with fresh sorrows as the summer passed into autumn, 
the autumn into winter, and the winter into spring again. 
Every feverish morning, with its blank listlessness and de- 
spair, seemed more hateful than the last ; every coming night 
more impossible to brave without arming herself in leaden 
stupor. The morning light brought no gladness to her : it 
seemed only to throw its glare on what had happennd in the 
dim candle-light — on the cruel man seated immovable in 
drunken obstinacy by the dead fire and dying lights in the 
dining-room, rating her in harsh tones, reiterating old re- 
proaches — or on a hideous blank of something unremembered 
something that must have made that dark bruise on her 
shoulder, which ached as she dressed herself. 

Do you wonder how it was that things had come to this 
pass — what offence Janet had committed in the early years 
of marriage to rouse the brutal hatred of this man ? The 
seeds of things are very small : the hours that lie between 
sunrise and the gloom of midnight are travelled through by 
tiniest markings of the clock: and Janet, looking back along 
the fifteen years of her married life, hardly knew how or where 
this total misery began ; hardly knew when the sweet wed- 
ded love and hope that had set forever had ceased to make 
a twilight of memory and relenting, before the on-coming of 
the utter dark. 

Old Mrs. Dempster thought she saw the true beginning of 
it all in Janet’s want of housekeeping skill and exactness. 
“Janet,” she said to herself, “was always running about doing 
things for other people, and neglecting her own house. That 
prov^okes a man ; what use is it for a woman to be loving, and 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


270 

making a fuss with her husband, if she doesn’t take care and 
keep his home just as he likes it ; if she isn’t at hand when he 
wants anything done ; if she doesn’t attend to all his wishes, 
let them be as small as they may ? That was what I did 
when I was a wife, though I didn’t make half so much fuss 
about loving my husband. Then, Janet had no children — ” 
Ah ! there Mammy Dempster had touched a true spring, not 
perhaps of her son’s cruelty, but of half Janet’s misery. If 
she had babes to rock to sleep — little ones to kneel in 
their night-dress and say their prayers at her knees — sweet 
boys and girls to put their young arms around her neck and 
kiss away her tears, her poor hungry heart would have been 
fed with strong love, and might never have needed that fiery 
poison to still its cravings. Mighty is the force of mother- 
hood ! says the great tragic poet to us across the ages, find, 
ing, as usual, the simplest words for the sublimest fact — 
y()v TO rixTttv l<rTiv. It transforms all things by' its vital heat \ 
it turns timidity into fierce courage, and dreadless defiance 
into tremulous submission ; it turns thoughtlessness into fore- 
sight, and yet stills all anxiety into calm content ; it makes 
selfishness become self-denial, and gives even to hard vanity 
the glance of admiring love. Yes ! if Janet had been a mother, 
she might have been saved from much sin, and therefore from 
much of her sorrow. 

But do not believe that it was anything either present or 
wanting in poor Janet that formed the motive of her husband’s 
cruelty. Cruelty, like every other vice, requires no motive 
outside itself — it only requires opportunity. You do not sup- 
pose Dempster had any motive for drinking bewnd the crav- 
ing for drink ; the presence of brandy was the only necessary 
condition. And an unloving, tyrannous, brutal man needs no 
motive to prompt his cruelty ; he needs only the perpetual 
presence of a woman he can call his own. A whole park full 
of tame or timid-eyed animals to torment at his will would not 
serve him so well to glut his lust of torture ; they could not 
feel as one woman does ; they could not throw out the keen 
retort which whets the edge of hatred. 

Janet’s bitterness would overflow in ready words ; she 
was not tp be made meek by cruelty ; she would repent of 
nothing in the face of injustice, though she was subdued in a 
moment by a \yord or a look that recalled the old days of 
fondness ; and in times of comparative calm would often re- 
cover her sweet woman’s habit of caressing, playful affection. 
But such days were become rare, and poor Janet’s soul was 


JANE T’S REPENTANCE. 2 7 ) 

kept like a vexed sea, tossed by a new storm before tiie old 
vyaves have fallen. Proud, angry resistance and sullen en- 
durance were now almost the only alternations she knew 
bhe would bear it all proudly to the world, but proudly tow- 
ards him too ; her woman’s weakness might shriek a cry for 
pity under a heavy blow, but voluntarily she would do nothing 
to mollify him, unless he first relented. What had she ever 
done to him but love him too well — but believe in him too 
too ishly > He had no pity on her tender flesh ; he could 
strike the soft neck he had once asked to kiss. Yet she 
would not admit her wretchedness ; she had married him 
blindly, and she would bear it out to the terrible end, what- 
ever that might be. Better this misery than the blank that 
lay for her outside her married home. 

But there was one person who heard all the plaints and 
all the outbursts of bitterness and despair which Janet was 
never tempted to pour into any other ear ; and alas ! in her 
worst moments, Janet would throw out wild reproaches 
against that patient listener. For the wrong that rouses our 
angry passions finds only a medium in us ; it passes through 
us like vibration, and we inflict what we have suffered. 

]\Irs. Raynor saw too clearly all through the winter that 
things were getting worse in Orchard Street. She had evi- 
dence enough of it in Janet's visits to her ; and, though her 
own visits to her daughter were so timed that she saw little 
of Dempster personally, she noticed many indications not 
only that he was drinking to greater excess, but that he was 
beginning to lose that physical power of supporting excess 
which had long been the admiration of such fine spirits as 
Mr. Tomlinson. It seemed as if Dempster had some con- 
sciousness of this — some new distrust of himself ; for, before 
winter was over, it was observed that he had renounced his 
habit of driving out alone, and was never seen in h.is gig 
without a servant by his si le. 

Nemesis is lame, but she is of colossal stature, like the 
gods ; and sometimes, while her sword is not yet unsheathed, 
she stretches out her huge left arm and grasps her victim. 
The mighty hand is invisible, but the victim totters under the 
dire clutch. 

The various symptoms that things K^ere getting worse with 
the Dempsters afforded Milby gossip something new to say on 
an old subject. Mrs. Dempster, every one remarked, looked 
more miserable than ever, though she kept up the old pretence 
of being happy and satisfied. She was scarcely ever seen, as 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


2^-ii 

she used to be, going about on her good-natured errands ; and 
even old Mrs. Crewe, who had always been wilfully blind to 
anything wrong in her favorite Janet, was obliged to admit 
that she had not seemed like herself lately. “ The poor 
thing’s out of health,” said the kind little old lady, in answer 
to all gossip about Janet; “her headaches always were bad, 
and I know what headaches are : why, they make one quite 
delirious sometimes.” Mrs= Phipps, for her part, declared she 
would never accept an invitation to Dempster’s again ; it was 
getting so very disagreeable to go there, Mrs. Dempster was 
often “so strange.” To be sure, there were dreadful stories 
about the way Dempster used his wife ; but in Mrs. Phipps’s 
opinion, it was six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. Mrs. 
Dempster had never been like other women ; she had always 
a flighty way with her, carrying parcels of snuff to old Mrs. 
Tooke, and going to drink tea with Mrs. Brinley, the carpen- 
ter’s wife ; and then never taking care of her clothes, always 
wearing the same things week-day or Sunday. A man has a 
poor look-out with a wife of that sort. Mr. Phipps, amiable 
and laconic, wondered how it was women were so fond of 
running each other down. 

Mr. Pratt having been called in provisionally to a patient 
of Mr. Pilgrim’s in a case of compound fracture, observed in 
a friendly colloquy with his brother surgeon the next day, 

“ So Dempster has left off driving himself, I see ; he won’t 
end with a broken neck after all. You’ll have a case of me- 
ningitis and delirium tremens instead.” 

“ Ah,” said Mr. Pilgrim, “ he can hardly stand it much 
longer at the rate he’s going on, one would think. He’s been 
confoundedly cut up about that business of Armstrong’s, I 
fancy. It may do him some harm, perhaps, but Dempster 
must have feathered his nest pretty well ; he can afford to 
lose a little business.” 

“ His business will outlast him, that’s pretty clear,” said 
Pratt ; “ he’ll run down like a watch with a broken spring 
one of these days.” 

Another prognostic of evil to Dempster came at the begin- 
ning of March. For then little “ Mamsey ” died — died sud- 
denly. The housemaid found her seated motionless in her 
arm-chair, her knitting fallen down, and the tortoise-shell cat 
reposing on it unreproved. The little white old woman had 
ended her wintry age of patient sorrow, believing to the last 
that “ Robert might have been a good husband as he had 
been a good son.” 


JANET^S REPENTANCE. 


273 

When the earth was thrown on Mamsey’s coffin, and the 
son, in crape scarf and hat-band, turned away homeward, his 
good angel, lingering with outstretched wing on the edge of 
the grave, cast one despairing look after him, and took flight 
forever. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The last week in March — three weeks after old Mrs. 
Dempster died — occurred the unpleasant winding-up of affairs 
between Dempster and Mr. Pryme, and under this additional 
source of irritation the attorney’s diurnal drunkenness had 
taken on its most ill-tempered and brutal phase. On the 
Friday morning, before setting out for Rotherby, he told his 
wife that he had invited “ four men ” to dinner at half past 
six that evening. The previous night had been a terrible one 
for Janet, and when her husband broke his grim morning si- 
lence to *ay these few words, she was looking so blank and 
listless that he added in a loud, sharp key, “ Do you hear 
what I say? or must I tell the cook?” She started, and 
said, “ Yes, I hear.” 

“ Then mind and have a dinner provided, and don’t go 
mooning about like crazy Jane.” 

Half an hour afterwards Mrs. Raynor, quietly busy in her 
kitchen with her household labors — for she had only a little 
twelve-year-old girl as a servant — heard with trembling the 
rattling of the garden gate and the opening of the outer door. 
She knew the step, and in one short moment she lived before- 
hand through the coming scene. She hurried out of the 
kitchen, and there in the passage, as she had felt, stood Janet, 
her eyes worn as if by night-long watching, her dress careless, 
her step languid. No cheerful morning greeting to her mother 
— no kiss. She turned into the parlor, and, seating herself 
on the sofa opposite her mother’s chair, looked vacantly at 
the walls and furniture until the corners of her mouth began 
to tremble, and her dark eyes filled with tears that fell un- 
wiped down her cheeks. The mother sat silently opposite to 
her, afraid to speak. She felt sure there was nothing new 
the matter — sure that the torrent of words would come sooner 
or later. 

“ Mother ! why don’t you speak to me ? ” Janet burst out 
18 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


274 

at last ; “ you don’t care about my suffering ; you are blaming 
me because I feel — because I am miserable.” 

“ My child, I am not blaming you — my heart is bleeding 
for you. Your head is bad this morning — you have had a 
bad night. Let me make you a cup of tea now. Perhaps 
you didn’t like your breakfast.” 

“ Yes, that is what you always think, mother. It is the old 
story, you think. You don’t ask me what it is I have had to 
bear. You are tired of hearing me. You are cruel, like the 
rest ; every one is cruel in this world. Nothing but blame — ■ 
blame — blame ; never any pity. God is cruel to Ijave sent 
me into the world to bear all this misery.” 

“Janet, Janet, don’t say so It is not for us to judge ; we 
must submit ; we must be thankful for the gift of life.” 

“ Thankful for life ! Why should I be thankful .? God 
has made me with a heart to feel, and He has sent me noth- 
ing but misery. How could I help it ? How could I know 
what would come? Why didn’t you tell me, mother? — Why 
did you let me marry? You knew what brutes men could 
be ; and there’s no help for me — no hope. I can’t kill my- 
self ; I’ve tried ; but I can’t leave this world and go to an- 
other. There may no pity for me there, as there is none 
here.” 

“Janet, my child, there is pity. Have I ever done any- 
thing but love you ? And there is pity in God. Hasn’t He 
put pity into your heart for many a poor sufferer? Where 
did it come from, if not from Him ? ” 

Janet’s nervous irritation now broke out into sobs instead 
of complainings ; and her mother was thankful, for after that 
crisis there would very likely come relenting, and tenderness, 
and comparative calm. She went out to make some tea, and 
when she returned with the tray in her liands, Janet had 
dried her eyes and now turned them tow'ards her mother with 
a faint attempt to smile ; but the poor face, in its sad blurred 
beauty, looked all the more piteous. 

“ Mother w'ill insist upon her tea,” she said, “and I really 
think I can drink a cup. But I must go home directly, for 
there are people coming to dinner. Could you go with me 
and help me, mother? ” 

Mrs. Raynor was always ready to do that. She went to 
Orchard Street with Janet, and remained with her through 
the day — comforted, as evening approached, to see her be- 
come more cheerful and willing to attend to her toilette. At 
half past five everything was in order; Janet was dressed; 


JANET'S REPENTANCE. 


275 

and when the mother had kissed her and said good-by she 
could not help pausing a moment in sorrowful admiration at 
the tall, rich figure, looking all the grander for the plainness 
of the deep mourning dress, and the noble face with its massy 
folds of black hair, made matronly by a simple white cap. 
Janet had that enduring beauty which belongs to pure majestic 
outline and depth of tint. Sorrow and neglect leave their 
traces on such beauty, but it thrills us to the last, like a glo- 
rious Greek temple, which, for all the loss it has suffered from 
time and barbarous, hands, has gained a solemn history, and 
fills our imagination the more because it is incomplete to the 
sense. 

It was six o’clock before Dempster returned from Roth- 
erby. He had evidently drunk a great deal, and was in an 
angry humor ; but Janet, who had gathered some little cour- 
age and forbearance from the consciousness that she had 
done her best to-day, was determined to speak pleasantly to 
him. 

“ Robert,” she said gently, as she saw him seat himself in 
the dining-room in his dusty, snuffy clothes, and take some 
documents out of his pocket, “will you not wash and change 
your dress It will refresh you.” 

“ Leave me alone, will you ? ” said Dempster, in his most 
brutal tone. 

“ Do cliange your coat and waistcoat, they are so dusty. 
I’ve laid all your things out ready.” 

“ Oh, you have, have you ? ” After a few minutes he 
rose very deliberately and walked up stairs into his bedroom. 
Janet had often been scolded before for not laying out his 
clothes, and she thought now, not without some wonder, that 
this attention of hers had brought him to compliance. 

Presently, he called out, “Janet ! ” and she went up stairs. 

“ Here ! Take that ! ” he said, as soon as she reached the 
door, flinging at her the coat she had laid out. “ Another 
time, leave me to do as I please, will you ? ” 

The coat, flung with great force, only brushed her shoul- 
der, and fell some distance within the drawing-room, the door 
of which stood open just opposite. She hastily retreated as 
she saw the waistcoat coming, and one by one the clothes she 
had laid out were all flung into the drawing-room. 

Janet’s face flushed with anger, and for the first time in 
her life her resentment overcame the long-cherished pride 
that made her hide her griefs from the world. There are 
moments when, by some strange impulse, we contradict our 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


276 

past selves — fatal moments, when a fit of passion, like a lava 
stream, lays low the work of half our lives. Janet thought, 
“ I will not pick up the clothes ; they shall lie there until the 
visitors come, and he shall be ashamed of himself.” 

There was a knock at the door, and she made haste to 
seat herself in the drawing-room, lest the servant should en- 
ter and remove the clothes, which were lying half on the table 
and half on the ground. Mr. Lowme entered with a less 
familiar visitor, a client of Dempster’s, and the next moment 
Dempster himself came in. 

His eye fell at once on the clothes, and then turned for an 
instant with a devilish glance of concentrated hatred on 
Janet, who, still flushed and excited, affected unconsciousness. 
After shaking hands with his visitors he immediately rang 
the bell. 

“ Take these clothes away,” he said to the servant, not 
looking at Janet again. 

During dinner, she kept up her assumed air of indifference, 
and tried to seem in high spirits, laughing and talking more 
than usual. In reality, she felt as if she had defied a wild 
beast within the four walls of his den, and he was crouching 
backward in preparation for his deadly spring. Dempster 
affected to take no notice of her, talked obstreperously, and 
drank steadily. 

About eleven the party dispersed, with the exception of 
Mr. Budd, who had joined them after dinner, and appeared 
disposed to stay drinking a little longer. Janet began to 
hope that he would stay long enough for Dempster to become 
heavy and stupid, and so to fall asleep down stairs, which 
was a rare but occasional ending of his nights. She told 
the servants to sit up no longer, and she herself undressed 
and went to bed, trying to cheat her imagination into the be- 
lief that the day was ended for her. But when she lay down 
she became more intensely awake than ever. Everything 
she had taken this evening seemed only to stimulate her 
senses and her apprehensions to new vividness. Her heart 
beat violently, and she heard every sound in the house. 

At last, when it was twelve, she heard Mr. Budd go out : 
she heard the door slam. Dempster had not moved. Was 
he asleep ? Would he forget 1 The minute seemed long, 
while, with a quickening pulse, she was on the stretch to 
catch every sound. 

“Janet ! ” The loud jarring voice seemed to strike her 
like a hurled weapon. 


JANET^S REPENTANCE. 


277 

“Janet !” he called again, moving out of the dining-room 
to the foot of the stairs. 

There was a pause of a minute. 

“ If you don’t come I’ll kill you.” 

Another pause, and she heard him turn back into the din- 
ing-room. He was gone for a light — perhaps for a weapon. 
Perhaps he would kill her. Let him. Life was as hideous 
as death. For years she had been rushing on to some un- 
known but certain horror j and now she was close upon it. 
She was almost glad. She was in a state of flushed, feverish 
defiance that neutralized her woman’s terrors. 

She heard his heavy step on the stairs ; she saw the slowly 
advancing light. 1 hen she saw the tall, massive figure, 
and the heavy face, now fierce with drunken rage. He had 
nothing but the candle in his hand. He set it down on the 
table and advanced close to the bed. 

“ So you think you’ll defy me, do you ? We’ll see how 
long that will last. Get up, madam ; out of bed this in- 
stant ! ” 

In the close presence of the dreadful man — of this huge 
crushing force, armed with savage will — poor Janet’s des- 
perate defiance all forsook her, and her terrors came back. 
Trembling she got up, and stood helpless in her night-dress 
before her husband. 

He seized her with his heavy grasp by the shoulder, and 
pushed her before him. 

“ I’ll cool your hot spirit for you ! I’ll teach you to brave 
me.” 

Slowly he pushed her along before him, down stairs and 
through the passage, where a small oil lamp was still flicker- 
ing. What was he going to do to her? She thought every 
moment he was going to dash her before him bn the ground. 
But she gave no scream — she only trembled. 

He pushed her on to the entrance and held her firmly in 
his grasp while he lifted the latch of the door. Then he 
opened the door a little way, thrust her out, and slammed it 
behind her. 

For a short space it seemed like a deliverance to Janet. 
The harsh north-east wind that blew through her thin night- 
dress, and sent her long heavy black hair streaming, seemed 
like the breath of pity after the.. grasp of that threatening 
monster. But soon the sense of release from an overpower- 
ing terror gave way before the sense of the fate that had 
really come upon her. 


278 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


This, then, was what she had been travelling towards 
through her long years of misery ! Not yet death. Oh ! 
if she had been brave enough for it, death would have been 
better. The servants slept at the back of the house j it was 
impossible to make them hear, so that they might let her in 
again quietly without her husband’s knowledge. And she 
would not have tried. He had thrust her out, and it should 
be forever. 

There would have been dead silence in Orchard Street 
but for the whistling of the wind and the swirling of the 
March dust on the pavement. Thick clouds covered the sky; 
every door was closed ; every window was dark. No ray of 
light fell on the tall white figure that stood in lonely misery 
on the doorstep; no eye rested on Janet as she sank down 
on the cold stone, and looking into the dismal night. She 
seemed to be looking into her own blank future. 


CHAPTER XV. 

The stony street, the bitter north-east wind and darkness 
— and in the midst of them a tender woman thrust out from 
her husband’s home in her thin night-dress, the harsh wind 
cutting her naked feet, and driving her long hair away from 
her half-clad bosom, where the poor heart is crushed with an- 
guish and despair. 

The drowning man, urged by the supreme agony, lives in 
an instant through all his happy and unhappy past: when 
the dark flood has fallen like a curtain, memory, in a single 
moment, sees the drama acted over again. And even in 
those earlier crises, which are but types of death— when we 
are cut off abruptly from the life we have known, when we 
can no longer expect to-morrow to resemble yesterday, and 
find ourselves by some sudden shock on the confines of the 
unknown-there is often the same sort of lightning-flash through 
the dark and unfrequented chambers of memory. 

When Janet sat down shivering on the door-stone, with 
the door shut upon her past life, and the future black and un- 
shapen before her as the night, the scenes of her childhood, 
her youth, and her painful womanhood, rushed back upon her 
consciousness, and made one picture with her present desola- 


JANET^S REPENTANCE, 279 

tion. The petted child taking her newest toy to bed with 
her — the young girl, proud in strength and beauty, dreaming 
that life was an easy thing, and that it was pitiful weakness 
to be unhappy — the bride, passing with trembling joy from 
the outer court to the inner sanctuary of woman’s life — the 
wife, beginning her initiation into sorrow, wounded, resenting, 
yet still hoping and forgiving — the poor bruised woman, seek- 
ing through weary years the one refuge of despair, oblivion : 
— Janet seemed to herself all these in the same moment that 
she was conscious of being seated on the cold stone under 
the shock of a new misery. All her early gladness, all her 
bright hopes and illusions, all her gifts of beauty and affec- 
tion, served only to darken the riddle of her life ; they were 
the betraying promises of a cruel destiny which had brought 
out those sweet blossoms only that the winds and storms 
might have a greater work of desolation, which had nursed 
her like a pet fawn into tenderness and fond expectation, only 
that she might feel a keener terror in the clutch of the panther. 
Her mother had sometimes said that troubles were sent to 
make us better and draw us nearer to God. What mockery 
that seemed to Janet ! Her troubles had been sinking her 
lower from year to year, pressing upon her like heavy fever- 
laden vapors, and perverting the very plenitude of her nature 
into a deeper source of disease. Her wretchedness had been 
a perpetually tightening instrument of torture, which had 
gradually absorbed all the other sensibilities of her nature 
into the sense of pain and the maddened craving for relief. 
Oh, if some ray of hope, of pity, of consolation, would pierce 
through the horrible gloom, she might believe thenm a Divine 
love — in a heavenly Father who cared for His children ! But 
now she had no faith, no trust. There was nothing she could 
lean on in the wide world, for her mother was only a fellow- 
sufferer in her own lot. The poor patient woman could 
do little more than mourn with her daughter : she had humble 
resignation enough to sustain her own soul, but she could no 
more give comfort and fortitude to Janet, than the withered 
ivv-covered trunk can bear up its strong, full-boughe^ off- 
spring crashing down under an Alpine storm, Janet felt she 
was alone : no human soul had measured her anguish, had 
understood her self-despair, had entered into her sorrows and 
her sins with that deep-sighted sympathy which is wiser than 
all blame, more potent than all reproof — such sympathy as 
had swelled her own heart for many a sufferer. And if there 
vas any Divine Pity, she could not feel it ; it kept aloof from 


28 o 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


her, it poured no balm into her wounds, it stretched out no 
hand to bear up her weak resolve, to fortify her fainting 
courage. 

Now, in her utmost loneliness, she shed no tear: she sat 
staring fixedly into the darkness, while inwardly she gazed at 
her own past, almost losing the sense that it was her own, or 
that she was anything more than a spectator at a strange and 
dreadful play. 

The loud sound of the church clock, striking one, startled 
her. She had not been there more than half an hour, then ? 
And it seemed to her as if she had been there half the night. 
She was getting benumbed with cold. With that strong in- 
stinctive dread of pain and death which had made her recoil 
from suicide, she started up, and the disagreeable sensation 
of resting on her benumbed feet helped to recall her com- 
pletely to the sense of the present. The wind was beginning 
to make rents in the clouds, and there came every now and 
then a dim light of stars that frightened her more than the 
darkness ; it was like a cruel finger pointing her out in her 
wretchedness and humiliation ; it made her shudder at the 
thought of the morning twilight. What could she do ! Not go 
to her mother — not rouse her in the dead of night to tell her 
this. Her mother would think she was a spectre ; it would be 
enough to kill her with horror. And the way there was so 
long .... if she should meet some one .... yet she must 
seek some shelter, somewhere to hide herself. Five doors off 
there was Mrs. Pettifer’s ; that kind woman would take her 
in. It was of no use now to be proud and mind about the 
world’s knowing : she had nothing to wish for, nothing to 
care about ; only she could not help shuddering at the thought 
of braving ' the morning light, there in the street — she was 
frightened at the thought of spending long hours in the cold. 
Life might mean anguish, might mean despair ; but — oh, she 
much clutch it, though with bleeding fingers ; her feet must 
cling to the firm earth that the sunlight would revisit, not 
slip into the untried abyss, where she might long even for 
fan^liar pains. 

Janet trod slowly with her naked feet on the rough pave- 
ment, trembling at the fitful gleams of starlight, and support- 
ing herself by the wall, as the gusts of wind drove right 
against her. The very wind was cruel ; it tried to push her 
back from the door where she wanted to go and knock and 
ask for pity. 

Mrs. Pettifer’s house did not look into Orchard Street ; it 


JANET'S REPENTANCE. 


28 


Stood a little way up a wide passage which opened into the 
street through an archway. Janet turned up the archway, 
and saw a faint light coming from Mrs. Pettifer’s bed-room 
window. The glimmer of a rushlight from a room where a 
friend was lying, was like a ray of mercy to Janet, after that 
long, long time of darkness and loneliness ; it would not be 
so dreadful to awake Mrs. Pettifer as she had thought. Yet 
she lingered some minutes at the door before she gathered 
courage to knock ; she felt as if the sound must betray her 
to others besides Mrs. Pettifer, though there was no other 
dwelling that opened into the passage — only warehouses and 
outbuildings. There was no gravel for her to throw up at 
the window, nothing but heavy pavement ; there was no door- 
bell ; she must knock. Her first rap was very timid — one 
feeble fall of the knocker ; and then she stood still again for 
many minutes ; but presently she rallied her courage and 
knocked several times together, not loudly, but rapidly, so 
that Mrs. Pettifer, if she only heard the sound, could not mis- 
take it. And she had heard it, for by and by the casement of 
her window was opened, and Janet perceived that she was 
bending out to try and discern who it was at the door. 

“ It is I, Mrs. Pettifer ; it is Janet Dempster. Take me 
in, for pity’s sake.” 

“ Merciful God ! what has happened ? ” 

“ Robert has turned me out. I have been in the cold a 
long while.” 

Mrs. Pettifer said no more, but hurried away from the 
window, and was soon at the door with a light in her hand. 

“ Come in, my poor dear, come in,” said the good woman 
in a tremulous voice, drawling Janet within the door. “ Come 
into my warm bed, and may God in heaven save and comfort 
you.” 

The pitying eyes, the tender voice, the warm touch, caused 
a rush of new feeling in Janet. Her heart swelled, and she 
burst out suddenly, like a child, into loud, passionate sobs. 
Mrs. Pettifer could not help crying with her, but she said, 
“ Come up stairs, my dear, come. Don’t linger in the cold.” 

She drew the poor sobbing thing gently up stairs, and per- 
suaded her to get into the warm bed. But it was long before 
Janet could lie down. She sat leaning her head on her knees, 
convulsed by sobs, while the motherly woman covered her 
with clothes, and held her arms round her to comfort her with 
warmth. At last the hysterical passion had exhausted itself 
and she fell back on the pillow; but her throat was still 


282 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


agitated by piteous after-sobs, such as shake a little child 
even when it has found a refuge from its alarms on its 
mother’s lap. 

Now Janet was getting quieter, Mrs. Pettifer determined 
to go down and make a cup of tea, the first thing a kind old 
woman thinks of as a solace and restorative under all calam- 
ities. Happily there was no danger of awaking her servant, 
a heavy girl of sixteen, who was snoring blissfully in the attic, 
and might be kept ignorant of the way in which Mrs. Demp- 
ster had come in. So Mrs. Pettifer busied herself with rousing 
the kitchen fire, which was kept in under a huge “ raker ” — ■ 
a possibility by which the cool of the midland counties atones 
for all its slowness and white ashes. 

When she carried up^the tea, Janet was lying quite still ,• 
the spasmodic agitation had ceased, and she seemed lost in 
thought ; her eyes were fixed vacantly on the rushlight shade, 
and all the lines of sorrow were deepened in her face. 

“Now, my dear,” said Mrs. Pettifer, “let me persuade you 
to drink a cup of tea ; you’ll find it warm you and soothe 
you very much. Wh}', dear heart your feet are like ice still. 
Now, do drink this tea, and I’ll wrap ’em up in flannel, and 
then they’ll get warm.” 

Janet turned her dark eyes on her old friend and stretched 
out her arms. She was too much oppressed to say any- 
thing; her suffering lay like a heavy weight on her power 
of speech ; but she wanted to kiss the good kind woman. 
Mrs. Pettifier, setting down the cup, bent towards the sad, 
beautiful face, and Janet kissed her with earnest sacramental 
kisses — such kisses as seal a new and closer bond between* 
the helper and the helped. 

She drank the tea obediently. “ It does warm me,” she 
said. “ But now you will get into bed. I shall lie still now.” 

Mrs. Pettifier felt it was the best thing she could do to lie 
down quietly and say no more. She hoped Janet might go 
to sleep. As for herself, with that tendency to wakefulness 
common to advanced years, she found it impossible to com- 
pose herself to sleep again after this agitating surprise. She 
lay listening to the clock, wondering what had led to this 
new outrage of Dempster’s, praying for the poor thing at her 
side, and pitying the mother who would have to hear it all to- 
morrow. 


JANET'S REPENTANCE. 


283 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Janet lay still, as she had promised ; but the tea, which 
had warmed her and given her a sense of greater bodily ease, 
had only heightened the previous excitement of her brain. 
Her ideas had a new vividness, which made her feel as if she 
had only seen^ life through a dim haze before ; her thoughts, 
instead of springing from the action of her own mind, were 
external existences, that thrust themselves imperiously upon 
her like haunting visions. The future took shape after shape 
of misery before her, always ending in her being dragged 
back again to her old life of terror, and stupor, and fevered 
despair. Her husband had so long overshadowed her life 
that her imagination could not keep hold of a condition in 
which that great dread was absent ; and even his absence — 
what w'as it } only a dreary vacant flat, where there was 
nothing to strive after, nothing to long for. 

At last, the light of morning quenched the rushlight, and 
Janet’s thoughts became more and more fragmentary and 
confused. She was every moment slipping off the level on 
which she lay thinking, down, down into some depth from 
which she tried to rise again with a start. Slumber was 
stealing over her weary brain : that uneasy slumber which is 
only better than wretched waking, because the life we seemed 
to live in it determines no wretched future, because the things 
we do and suffer in it are but hateful shadows, and leave no 
impress that petrifies into an irrevocable past. 

She had scarcely been asleep an hour when her movements 
became more violent, her mutterings more frequent and agi- 
tated, till at last she started up with a smothered cry, and 
looked wildly round her, shaking with terror. 

“ Don’t be frightened, dear Mrs. Dempster,” said Mrs. PeT 
tifer, w'ho was up and dressing, “ you are with me, your old 
friend, Mrs. Pettifer. Nothing will harm you.” 

Janet sank back again on her pillow, still trembling. 
After lying silent a little while, she said, “ It was a horrible 
dream. Dear Mrs. Pettifer, don’t let any one know I am 
here. Keep it a secret. If he finds out, he will come and 
drag me back again.” 

“No, my dear, depend on me. I’ve just thought I shall 
send the servant home on a holiday — I've promised her a 


284 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


good while. I’ll send her away as soon as she’s had her 
breakfast, and she’ll have no occasion to know you’re here. 
There’s no holding servants’ tongues, if you let ’em know any- 
thing. What they don’t know, they won’t tell ; you may 
trust ’em so far. But shouldn’t you like me to go and fetch 
your mother ? ” 

“ No, not yet, not yet. I can’t bear to see her yet.” 

“ Well, it shall be just as you like. Now try and get to 
sleep again. I shall leave you for an hour or two, and send 
off Phoebe, and then bring you some breakfast. I’ll lock the 
door behind me, so that the girl mayn’t come in by chance.” 

The daylight changes the aspect of misery to us, as of 
everything else. In the night it presses on our imagination 
— the forms it takes are false, fitful, exaggerated ; in broad 
day it sickens our sense with the dreary persistence of defi- 
nite measurable reality. The man who looks with ghastly 
horror on all his property aflame in the dead of night, has not 
half the sense of destitution he will have in the morning, 
when he walks over the ruins lying blackened in the pitiless 
sunshine. That moment of intensest depression was come to 
Janet, when the daylight which showed her the walls, and 
chairs, and tables, and all the commonplace reality that sur- 
rounded her, seemed to lay bare the future too, and bring out 
into oppressive distinctness all the details of a weary life to 
be lived from day to day, with no hope to strengthen her 
against that evil habit, which she loathed in retrospect and 
yet was powerless to resist. Her husband would never con- 
sent to her living away from him : she was become necessary 
to his tyranny ; he would never willingly loosen his grasp on 
her. She had a vague notion of some protection the law 
might give her, if she could prove her life in danger from him ; 
but she shrank utterly, as she had always done, from any act- 
ive, public resistance or vengeance : she felt too crushed, too 
faulty, too liable to reproach, to have the courage, even if she 
had had the wish to put herself openly in the position of a 
wronged woman seeking redress. She had no strength to sus- 
tain her in a course of self-defence and independence : there was 
a darker shadow over her life than the dread of her husband — 
it was the shadow of self-despair. The easiest thing would 
be to go away and hide herself from him. But then there 
was her mother : Robert had all her little property in his 
hands, and that little was scarcely enough to keep her in com- 
fort without his aid. If Janet went away alone he would be 
sure to persecute her mother ; and if she did away — what 


JANET'S REPENTANCE, 


285 

then ? She must work to maintain herself ; she must exert 
herself, weary and hopeless as she was, to begin life afresh. 
How hard that seemed to her ! Janet’s nature did not belie 
her grand face and form : there was energy, there was 
strength in it ; but it was the strength of the vine, which 
must have its broad leaves and rich clusters borne up by a 
firm sta^. And now she had nothing to rest on — no faith, no 
love. If her mother had been very feeble, aged, or sickly, 
Janet’s deep pity and tenderness might have made a daugh- 
ter’s duties an interest and a solace ; but Mrs. Raynor had 
never needed tendance; she had always been giving help to 
her daughter; she had always been a sort of humble minister- 
ing spirit ; and it was one of Janet’s pangs of memory, that 
instead of being her mother’s comfort, she had been her moth- 
er’s trial. Everywhere the same sadness ! Her life was a 
sun-dried, barren tract, where there was no shado^w and where 
all the waters were bitter. 

No ! She suddenly thought — and the thought was like an 
electric shock — there was one spot in her memory which 
seemed to promise her an untried spring, where the waters 
might be sweet. That short interview with Mr. Tryan had 
come back upon her — his voice, his words, his look, which 
told her that he knew sorrow. His words had implied that 
he thought his death was near ; yet he had a faith which en- 
abled him to labor — enabled him to give comfort to others. 
That look of his came back on her with a vividness greater 
than it had had for her in reality : surely he knew more of the 
secrets of sorrow than other men ; perhaps he had some mes- 
sage of comfort, different from the feeble words she had been 
used to hear from others. She was tired, she was sick of that 
barren exhortation — Do right, and keep a clear conscience, 
and God will reward you, and your troubles will be easier to 
bear. She wanted strength to do right — she wanted some- 
thing to rely on besides her own resolutions ; for was not the 
path behind her all strewn with broken resolutions ? How 
could she trust in new ones ? She had often heard Mr. Tryan 
laughed at for being fond of great sinners. She began to see 
a new meaning in those words ; he would perhaps understand 
her helplessness, her wants. If she could pour out her heart 
to him ! if she could for the first time in her life unlock all 
the chambers of her soul ! 

The ’impulse to confession almost always requires the 
presence of a fresh ear and a fresh heart ; and in our moments 
of spiritual need, the man to whom we have no tie but our 


286 


SCEATES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


common nature, seems nearer to us than mother, brother, or 
friend. Our daily familiar life is but a hiding of ourselves 
from each other behind a screen of trivial words and deeds, 
and those who sit with us at the same hearth are often the 
farthest off from the deep human soul within us, full of un- 
spoken evil and unacted good. 

When Mrs. Pettifer came back to her, turning the\ey and 
opening the door very gently, Janet, instead of being asleep, 
as her good friend had hoped, was intensely occupied with 
her new thought. She longed to ask Mrs. Pettifer if she 
could see Mr. Tryan ; but she was arrested by douots and 
timidity. He might not feel for her — he might be shocked at 
her confession — he might talk to her of doctrines she could 
not understand or believe. She could not make up her mind 
yet ; but she was too restless under this mental struggle to 
remain in bed. 

“ Mrs. Pettifer,’’ she said, “ I can’t lie here any longer ; I 
must get up. Will you lend me some clothes ? ” 

Wrapt in such drapery as Mrs. Pettifer could find for her 
tall figure, Janet went down into the little parlor, and tried 
to take some of the breakfast her friend had prepared for her. 
But her effort was not a successful one ; her cup of tea and 
bit of toast were only half finished. The leaden weight of 
discouragement pressed upon her more and more heavily. 
The wind had fallen, and a drizzling rain had come on ; there 
was no prospect from Mrs. Pettifer’s parlor but a blank wall; 
and as Janet looked out at the window, the rain and the 
smoke-blackened bricks seemed to blend themselves in sick- 
ening identity with her desolation of spirit and the headachy 
weariness of her body. 

Mrs. Pettifer got through her household work as soon as 
she could, and sat down w'ith her sewing, hoping that Janet 
would perhaps be able to talk a little of what had passed, and 
find some relief by unbosoming herself in that way. But 
Janet could not speak to her; she was importuned with the 
longing to see Mr. Tryan, and yet hesitating to express it. 

Two hours passed in this way. The rain went on driz- 
zling, and Janet sat still, leaning her aching head on her hand, 
and looking alternately at the fire and out of the window. 
She felt this could not last — this motionless, vacant misery. 
She must determine on something, she must take some step ; 
and yet everything was so difficult. 

It was one o’clock, and Mrs. Pettifer rose from her seat, 
saying, “ I must go and see about dinner.” 


r A NET'S REPENTANCE. 


287 

The movement and the sound startled Janet from her rev- 
erie. It seemed as if an opportunity were escaping her, and 
she said hastily, Is Mr. Tryan in the town to-day, do you 
think ? ” 

“ No, I should think not, being Saturday, you know,” said 
Mrs. Pettifer, her face lighting up with pleasure ; “ but he 
ivouLl come, if he was sent for. I can send Jesson’s boy with 
a note to him any time. Should you like to see him ? ” 

“ Yes, I think I should.” 

“ Then I’ll send for him this instant.” 


CHAPTER XVri. 

When Dempster awoke in the morning, he was at no loss 
to account to himself for the fact that Janet was not by his 
side. His hours of drunkenness were not cut off from his other 
hours by any blank wall of oblivion ; he remembered what 
Janet had done to offend him in the evening before, he re- 
membered what he had done to her at midnight, just as he 
would have remembered if he had been consulted about a 
right of road. 

The remembrance gave him a definite ground for the extra 
ill-humor which had attended his waking every morning this 
week, but he would not admit to himself that it cost him any 
anxiety. “ Pooh,” he said inwardly, “ she would go straight 
to her mother’s. She’s as timid as a hare ; and she’ll never 
let anybody know about it. She’ll be back again before 
night.” 

But it would be as well for the servants not to know any- 
thing of the affair : so he collected the clothes she had taken 
off the night before, and threw them into a fire-proof closet 
of which he always kept the key in his pocket. When he 
went down stairs he said to the housemaid, “ Mrs. Dempster 
is gone to her mother’s ; bring in the breakfast.” 

The servants, accustomed to hear domestic broils, and to 
see their mistress put on her bonnet hastily and go to her 
mother’s, thought it only something a little worse than usual 
that she should have gone thither in consequence of a violent 
quarrel, either at midnight, or in the early morning before 
they were up. The housemaid told the cook what she sup- 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


2 58 

posed had happened ; the cook shook her head and said, “ Eh, 
dear, dear ! ” but they both expected to see their mistress back 
again in an hour or two. 

Dempster, on his return home the evening before, had or- 
dered his man, who lived away from the house, to bring up 
his horse and gig from the stables at ten. After breakfast 
he said to the housemaid, “ No one need sit up for me to- 
night ; I shall not be at home till to-morrow evening ; ” and 
then he walked to the office to give some orders, expecting, 
as he returned, to see the man waiting with his gig. But 
though the church clock had struck ten, no gig was there. 
In Dempster’s mood this was more than enough to exasper- 
ate him. He went in to take his accustomed glass of brandy 
before setting out, promising himself the satisfaction of pres- 
ently thundering at Dawes for being a few minutes behind 
his time. An outbreak of temper towards his man was not 
common with him ; for Dempster, like most tyrannous people, 
had that dastardly kind of self restraint which enabled him 
to control his temper where it suited his own convenience to 
do so ; and feeling the value of Dawes, a steady, punctual 
fellow, he not only gave him high wages, but usually treated 
him with exceptional civility. This morning, however, ill- 
humor got the better of prudence, and Dempster was deter- 
mined to rate him soundly ; a resolution for which Dawes 
gave him much better ground than he expected. Five min- 
utes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, had passed, and 
Dempster was setting off to the stables in a back street to 
see what was the cause of the delay, when Dawes appeared 
with the gig. 

“ What the devil do you keep me here for ? ” thundered 
Dempster, “ kicking my heels like a beggarly tailor waiting 
for a carrier’s cart I ordered you to be here at ten. We 
might ha.*e driven to Whitlow by this time.” 

“Why, one o’ the traces was welly i’ two, an’ I had to 
take it to Brady’s to be mended, an’ he didn’t get it done i’ 
time.” 

“ Then why didn’t you take it to him last night ? Because 
of your damned laziness, I suppose. Do you think I give 
you wages for you to choose your own hours, and come dawd- 
ling up in a quarter of an hour after my time ? ” 

“ Come, give me good words, will yer ? ” said Dawes, sulk- 
ily. “ I’m not lazy nor no man shall call me lazy. I know 
well anuff what you gi’ me wages for ; it’s for doin’ what yer 
won’t find many men as ’ull do.” 


JANET'S REPENTANCE. 


289 

, ‘ What, you impudent scoundrel,” said Dempster, getting 

into the gig, “you think you’re necessary to me, do vou ? As 
if a beastly bucket-carrying idiot like you wasn’t to be got any 
day. Look out for a new master, then, who’ll pay you for 
not doing as you’re bid.” 

Dawes’s blood was now fairly up. I’ll look out for a 
master as has got a better charicter nor a lyin’, bletherin’ 
drunkard, an’ 1 shouldn’t hev to go fur.” 

Dempster, furious, snatched the whip from the socket, and 
gave Dawes a cut which he meant to fall across his shoulders, 
saying, “ Take that, sir, and go to hell with you ! ” 

Dawes was in the act of turning with the reins in his hand 
when the lash fell, and the cut went across his face. With 
white lips, he said, “ I’ll have the law on yer for that, lawyer 
as y’are,” and threw the reins on the horse’s back. 

Dempster leaned forward, seized the reins, and drove off. 

“ Why, there’s your friend Dempster driving out without 
his man again,” said Mr. Luke Byles, who was chatting with 
Mr. Budd in the Bridge Way. “ What a fool he is to drive 
that two-wheeled thing ! he’ll get pitched on his head one of 
these days.” 

“ Not he,” said Mr. Budd, nodding to Dempster as he 
passed ; “ he’s got nine lives, Dempster has.” 


CHAPTER XVriI. 

It was dusk, and the candles were lighted before Mr. 
Tryan knocked at Mrs. Pettifer’s door. Her messenger had 
brought back word that he was not at home, and all after- 
noon Janet had been agitated by the fear that he would not 
come ; but as soon as that anxiety was removed by the knock 
at the door, she felt a sudden rush of doubt and timidity : 
she- trembled and turned cold. 

Mrs. Pettifer went to open the door, and told Mr. Trj’an, 
in as few words as possible, what had happened in the night. 
As he laid down his hat and prepared to enter the parlor, she 
said, “ I won’t go in with you, for I think perhaps she would 
rather see you go in alone.” 

Janet, wrapped in a large white shawl which threw her 
dark -face into startling relief, was seated with her eyes turned 


SCEA^ES OE CLERICAL LIFE, 


290 

anxiously towards the door when Mr. Tryan entered. He 
had not seen her since their interview at Saily Martin’s, long 
months ago ; and he felt a strong movement of compassion 
at the sight of the pain-stricken face which seemed to bear 
written on it the signs of all Janet’s intervening misery. Her 
heart gave a great leap, as her eyes met his once more. No ! 
she had not deceived herself ; there was all the sincerity, all 
the sadness, all the deep pity in them her memory had told 
her of ; more than it had told her, for in proportion as his 
face had become thinner and more worn, his eyes appeared 
to have gathered intensity. 

He came forward, and, putting out his hand, said, “ I am 
so glad you sent for me — I am so thankful you thought I 
could be any comfort to you.” Janet took his hand in silence. 
She was unable to utter any words of mere politeness, or even 
of gratitude ; her heart was too full of other words that had 
welled up the moment she met his pitying glance, and felt her 
doubts fall away. 

They sat down opposite each other, and she said in a low 
voice, while slow, difficult tears gathered in her aching eyes, 

“ I want to tell you how unhappy I am — how weak and 
wicked. I feel no strength to live or die. I thought you 
could tell me something that would help me.” She paused. 

“ Perhaps I can,” Mr. Tryan said, “ for in speaking to me 
you are speaking to a fellow-sinner who has needed just the 
comfort and help you are needing.” 

“ And you did find it ? ” 

“Yes; and 1 trust you will find it.” 

“Oh, I should like to be good and do right,” Janet burst 
forth ; “ but indeed, indeed, my lot has been a very hard one. 
I loved my husband very dearly when we were married, and 
I meant to make him happy — I wanted nothing else. But he 
began to be angry with me for little things and .... I don’t 
want to accuse him .... but he drank and got more and 
more unkind to me, and then very cruel, and he beat me. 
And that cut me to the heart. It made me almost mad some- 
times to think all our love had come to that I 

couldn’t bear up against it. I had never been used to drink 
anything but water. I hated wine and spirits because Robert 
drank them so ; but one day when I was very wretched, and 
the wine was standing on the table, I suddenly .... I can 
hardly remember how I came to do it ... . I poured some 
wine into a large glass and drank it. It blunted my feelings, 
and made me more indifferent. After that, the temptation 


JANET'S REPENTANCE. 


291 


was always coming, and it got stronger and stronger, I was 
ashamed, and 1 hated what I did ; but almost while the thought 
was passing through my mind that 1 would never do it again, 
I did it. It seemed as if there was a demon in me always 
making me rush to do what I longed not to do. And I thought 
all the more that God was cruel ; for if he had not sent me 
that dreadful trial, so much worse than other women have to 
bear, I should not have done wrong in that way. I suppose 
it is wicked to think so. . . . 1 feel as if there must be good- 

ness and right above us, but I can’t see it, 1 can’t trust in it. 
And 1 have gone on in that way for years and years. At one 
time it used to be better now and then, but ever}’thing has 
got worse lately ; I felt sure it must soon end somehow. And 
last night he turned me out of doors .... I don’t know 
what to do. I will never go back to that life again if I can 
help it ; and yet everything else seems so miserable. I feel 
sure that demon will be always urging me to satisfy the 
craving that comes upon me, and the days will go on as they 
have done through all those miserable years. I shall always 
be doing wrong, and hating myself after — sinking lower and 
lower, and knowing that 1 am sinking. Oh, can you telV me 
any way of getting strength ? Have you ever known any 
one like me that got peace of mind and power to do right "i 
Can you give me any comfort — any hope ? ” 

While Janet was speaking, she had forgotten everything 
but her misery and her yearning for comfort. Her voice had 
risen from the low tone of timid distress to an intense pitch 
of imploring anguish. She clasped her hands tightly, and 
looked at Mr. Tryan with eager, questioning eyes, with part- 
ed, trembling lips, with the deep horizontal lines of overmas- 
tering pain on her brow. In this artificial life of ours, it is 
not often we see a human face with all a heart’s agony in it, 
uncontrolled by self-consciousness ; when we do see it, it 
startles us as if we had suddenly waked into the real world 
of which this every-day one is but a puppet-show copy. For 
some moments Mr. Tryan was too deeply moved to speak. 

“Yes, dear Mrs. Dempster,” he said at last, “there is 
comfort, there is hope for you. Believe me there is, for I 
speak from my own deep ^nd hard experience.” He paused, 
as if he had not made up his mind to utter the words that 
were urging themselves to his lips. Presently he continued, 
“ Ten years ago, I felt as wretched as you do. I think my 
wretchedness was even worse than yours, for I had a heavier 
sin on my conscience. I had suffered no wrong from others 


2Q2 


SCENES OF CLEFICAL LIFE. 


as you have, and I had injured another irreparably in body 
and soul. The image of the wrong I had done pursued me 
everywhere, and I seemed on the brink of madness. I hated 
my life, for I thought, just as you do, that J should go on 
falling into temptation and doing more harm in the world ; 
and I dreaded death, for with that sense of guilt on my soul, 
I felt that whatever state I entered on must be one of misery. 
But a dear friend to whom I opened my mind showed me it 
was just such as I — the helpless who feel themselves helpless 
— that God specially invites to come to Him, and offers all 
the riches of His salvation ; not forgiveness only ; forgive- 
ness would be worth little if it left us under the powers of 
our evil passions ; but strength — that strength which enables 
us to conquer sin.” 

“But,” said Janet, “I can feel no trust in God. He 
seems always to have left me to myself. I have sometimes 
prayed to Him to help me, and yet everything has been just 
the same as before. If you felt like me, how did you come 
to have hope and trust ? ” 

“ Do not believe that God has left you to yourself. How 
can you tell but that the hardest trials you have known have 
been only the road by w^hich He w^as leading you to that com- 
plete sense of your own sin and helplessness, without which 
you would never have renounced all other hopes, and 
trusted in His love alone ? I know, dear Mrs. Dempster, I 
know it is hard to bear. I would not speak lightly of your 
sorrows. I feel that the mystery of our life is great, and at 
one time it seemed as dark to me as it does to you.” Mr. 
Tryan hesitated again. He saw that the first thing Janet 
needed was to be assured of sympathy. She must be made 
to feel that her anguish was not strange to him ; that he en- 
tered into the only half-expressed secrets of her spiritual 
weakness, before any other message of consolation could find 
its way to her heart. The tale of the Divine Pity was 
never yet believed from lips that were not felt to be 
moved by human pity. And Janet’s anguish was not 
strange to Mr. Tryan. He had never been in the presence 
of a sorrow and a self-despair that had sent so strong 
a thrill thro'ugh all the recesses of his saddest experience ; 
and it is because sympathy is but a living again through 
our own past in a new form, that confession often prompts a 
response of confession. Mr. Tryan felt this prompting, and 
his judgment, too, told him that in obeying it he would be 
taking the best means of administering comfort to Janet. 


JANETS REPENTANCE. 


293 


Yet he hesitated ; as we tremble to let in the daylight on a 
chamber of relics which we have never visited except in cur- 
tained silence, But the first impulse triumphed, and he went 
on. “I had lived all my life at a distance from God. My 
youth was spent in thoughtless self-indulgence, and all my 
hopes were of a vain, worldly kind. I had no thought of enter- 
ing the Church ; 1 looked forward to a political career, for 
my father was private secretary to a man high in the Whig 
Ministr}^, and had been promised strong interest in my behalf. 
At college I lived in iniknacy with the gayest men, e/en 
adopting follies and vices for which 1 had no taste, out of 
mere pliancy and the love of standing well with my com- 
panions. You see, I was more guilty even then than you 
have been, for I threw away all the rich blessings of un- 
troubled youth and health ; I had no excuse in my outward 
lot. But while I was at college that event in my life occur- 
red, which in the end brought on the state of mind I have 
mentioned to you — the state of self-reproach and despair, 
which enables me to understand to the full what you are suf- 
fering ; and I tell you the facts, because 1 want you to be as- 
sured that I am not uttering mere vague words when I say 
that I have been raised from as Iowa depth of sin and sorrow 
as that in which you feel yourself to be. At college I had 
an attachment to a lovely girl of seventeen ; she was very 
much below my own station in life, and I never contemplated 
marrying her ; but I induced her to leave her father’s house. 
I did not mean to forsake her when I left college, and I quieted 
all scruples of conscience by promising myself that I 
would always take care of poor Lucy. But on my return from 
a vacation spent in travelling, I found that Lucy was gone — 
gone away with a gentleman, her neighbors said. I was a good 
deal distressed, but I tried to persuade myself that no harm 
would come to her. Soon afterwards I had an illness which 
left my heart delicate, and made all dissipation distasteful 
to me. Life seemed very wearisome and empty, and I looked 
with envy on every one who had some great and absorbing ob- 
ject — even on my cousin who was preparing to go out as a 
missionary, and whom I had been used to think a dismal, 
tedious person, because he was constantly urging religious 
subjects upon me. We were living in London then ; it was 
three years since I had lost sight of Lucy ; and one summer 
evening, about nine o’clock, as I was walking along Gower 
Street, I saw a knot of people on the causeway before me. 
As I came up to them, 1 heard one woman say, ‘ I tell you 


SCENES OF CLEEICAL LIFE. 


294 

she is dead.’ This awakened my interest, and I pushed my 
way within the circle. 'I'he body of a woman, dressed in fine 
clothes, was lying against a door-step. Her head was bent 
on one side, and the long curls had fallen over her cheek. A 
tremor seized me when I saw the hair : it was light chestnut 
— the color of Lucy’s. I knelt down and turned aside the 
hair ; it was Lucy — dead — with paint on her cheeks. 1 found 
out afterwards that she had taken poison — that she was in 
the power of a wicked woman — that the very clothes on her 
back were not her own. It was then that my past life burst 
upon me in all its hideousness. I wished I had never been 
born. I couldn’t look into the future. Lucy’s dead painted 
face would follow me there, as it did when I looked back into 
the past — as it did when I sat down to table with my friends, 
when I lay down in my bed, and when I rose up. There was 
only one thing that could make life tolerable to me ; that was 
to spend all the rest of it in trying to save others from the ruin 
I had brought on one. But how was that possible for me ? 
I had no comfort, no strength, no wisdom in my own soul ; 
how could I give them to others ? My mind was dark, re- 
bellious, at war with itself and with God.” 

Mr. Tryan had been looking away from Janet. His face 
was towards the fire, and he was absorbed in the image his 
memory was recalling. But now he turned his eyes on her, 
and they met hers, fixed on him with the look of rapt expec- 
tation, with which one clinging to a slippery summit of a rock, 
while the waves are rising higher and higher, watches the 
boat that has put from shore to his rescue. 

“ You see, Mrs. Dempster, how deep my need was, I went 
on in this way for months. T was convinced that if I ever 
got health and comfort, it must be from religion. I went to 
hear celebrated preachers, and I read religious books. But I 
found nothing that fitted my own need. The faith which puts 
the sinner in possession of salvation seemed, as I understood 
it, to be quite out of my reach. I had no faith ; I only felt 
utterly wretched, under the power of habits and dispositions 
which had wrought hideous evil. At last, as I told you, I 
found a friend to whom I opened all my feelings — to whom I 
confessed everything. He was a man who had gone through 
very deep experience, and could understand the different 
wants of different minds. He made it clear to me that the 
only preparation for coming to Christ and partaking of his 
salvation, was that very sense of guilt and helplessness which 
was weighing me down. He said, you are weary and heavy- 


JANETS REPENTANCE. 


295 

laden ; well, it is you Christ invites to come to him and find 
rest. He asks you to cling to him, to lean on him ; he does 
not command you to walk alone without stumbling. He does 
not tell you, as your fellow-men do, that you must first merit 
his love ; he neither condemns nor reproaches you for the 
past, he only bids you to come to him that you may have life ; 
he bids you stretch out your hands, and take of the fulness 
of his love. You have only to rest on him as a child rests 
on its mother’s arms, and you will be upborne by his divine 
strength. That is what is meant by faith. Your evil habits, 
you feel, are too strong for you ; you are unable to wrestle 
with them ; you know beforehand you shall fall. But when 
once we feel our helplessness in that way, and go to the Sav- 
iour, desiring to be freed from the power as well as the pun- 
ishment of sin, we are no longer left to our own strength. 
As long as we live in rebellion against God, desiring to have 
our own will, seeking happiness in the things of this world, it 
is as if we shut ourselves up in a crowded, stifling room, 
where we breathe only poisoned air ; but we have only to 
walk out under the infinite heavens, and we breathe the pure 
free air that gives us health, and strength and gladness. It 
is just so with God’s spirit : as soon as we submit ourselves 
to his will, as soon as we desire to be united to him, and made 
pure and holy, it is as if the walls had fallen down that shut 
us out from God, and we are fed with his spirit, which gives 
us new strength.” 

“That is what I want,” said Janet : “ I have left off mind- 
ing about pleasure. I think I could be contented in the midst 
of hardship, if I felt that God cared for me, and would give 
me strength to lead a pure life. But tell me, did you soon 
find peace and strength ? ” 

“ Not perfect peace for a long while, but hope and trust, 
which is strength. No sense of pardon for myself could do 
away with the pain I had in thinking what I had helped to 
bring on another. My friend used to urge upon me that my 
sin against God was greater than my sin against her ; but — it 
may be from want of deeper spiritual feeling that has re- 
mained to this hour the sin which causes me the bitterest 
pang. I could never rescue Lucy ; but by God’s blessing 
I might rescue other weak and falling souls ; and that was 
why I entered the Church. I asked for nothing through 
the rest of my life but that I might be devoted to God’s 
work, without swerving in search of pleasure either to the 
ri^ht hand or to the left. It has been often a hard struggle— 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


296 

but God has been with me — and perhaps it may not last much 
longer.” 

Mn Tryan paused. For a moment he had forgotten Janet, 
and for a moment she had forgotten her own sorrows. When 
she recurred to herself, it was with a new feeling. 

“ Ah, what a difference between our lives ! you have been 
choosing pain, and working, and denying yourself ; and I have 
been thinking only of myself. I was only angry and discon- 
tented because I had pain to bear. You never had that wicked 
feeling that I have had so often, did you ? that God was 
cruel to send me trials and temptations worse than others 
have.” 

“ Yes, I had ; I had very blasphemous thoughts, and I 
know that spirit of rebellion must have made the worst part 
of your lot. You did not feel how impossible it is for us to 
judge rightly of God’s dealings, and you opposed 3^ourself to 
his will. But what do we know ? We can not foretell the 
working of the smallest event in our own lot ; how can we 
presume to judge of things that are so much too high for us ? 
There is nothing that becomes us but entire submission, per- 
fect resignation. As long as we set up our own will and our 
own wisdom against God’s, we make that wall between us and 
his love which I have spoken of just now. But as soon as 
we lay ourselves entirely at his feet, we have enough light 
given us to guide our own steps ; as the foot-soldier who hears 
nothing of the councils that determine the course of the great 
battle he is in, hears plainly enough the word of command 
which he must himself obey. I know, Mrs. Dempster, I know 
it is hard — the hardest thing of all, perhaps — to flesh and 
blood. But carry that difficulty to the Saviour along with all 
your other sins and weaknesses, and ask him to pour into you 
a spirit of submission. He enters into your struggles; he has 
drunk the cup of our suffering to the dregs ; he knows the 
hard wrestling it costs us to say, ‘ Not my will, but Thine be 
done.’ ” 

“ Pray with me,” said Janet — “pray now that I may have 
light and strength.” 


JANET'S REPENTANCE. 


297 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Before leaving Janet, Mr. Try an urged her strongly to 
send for her mother. 

“ Do not wound her,” he said, “ by shutting her out any 
longer from your troubles. It is right that you should be with 
her.” 

“Yes, I will send for her,” said Janet. “But I would 
rather not go to my mother’s yet, because my husband is sure 
to think I ajn there^ and he might come and fetch me. I 
can’t go back to him .... at least not yet. Ought I to go 
back to him ? ” 

“ No, certainly not, at present. Something should ‘be 
done to secure you from violence. Your mother, I think, 
should consult some confidential friend, some man of charac- 
ter and experience, who might meditate between you and 
your husband.” 

“ Yes, I will send for my mother directly. But I will 
stay here, with Mrs. Pettifer, till something has been done. 
I want no one to know where I am, except you. You 
will come again, will you not ? you will not leave me to my- 
self?” 

“ You will not be left to yourself. God is with you. If 
I have been able to give you any comfort, it is because his 
power and love have been present with us. But I am very 
thankful that he has chosen to work through me. I shall see 
you again to-morrow — not before evening, for it will be Sun- 
day, you know ; but after the evening lecture I shall be at 
liberty. You will be in my prayers till then. In the mean 
time, dear Mrs. Dempster, open your heart as much as you 
can to your mother and Mrs. Pettifer. Cast away from you 
the pride that makes us shrink from acknowledging our weak- 
ness to our friends. Ask them to help you in guarding your- 
self from the least approach of the sin you most dread. De- 
prive yourself as far as possible of the very means and oppor- 
tunity of committing it. Every effort of that kind made in 
humility and dependence is a prayer. Promise me you will 
do this.” 

“ Yes, I promise you. I know I have always been too 
proud ; I could never bear to speak to any one about myself. 
I have been proud towards my mother, even ; it has always 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


25S 

made me angry when she has seemed to take notice of my 
faults.” 

“ Ah, dear Mrs. Dempster, 3^ou will never say again that 
life is blank, and that there is nothing to live for, will you ? 
See what work there is to be done in life, both in our own 
souls and for others. Surely it matters little whether we 
have more or less of this world’s comfort in these short years, 
when God is training us for the eternal enjoyment of his love. 
Keep that great end of life before you, and your troubles 
here will seem only the small hardships of a journey. Now 
I must go.” 

Mr. Tryan rose and held out his hand. Janet took it and 
said, “ God has been very good to me in sending you to me. 
i will trust in him. I will try to do everything you tell me.” 

Blessed influence of one true loving human soul on an- 
other ! Not calculable by algebra, not deducible by logic, 
but mysterious, effectual, mighty as the hidden process by 
which the tiny seed is quickened, and bursts forth into tall 
stem and broad leaf, and glowing tasselled flower. Ideas are 
often poor ghosts ; our sun-filled eyes cannot discern them ; 
they pass athwart us in thin vapor, and cannot make them- 
selves felt. But sometimes they are made flesh, they 
breathe upon us with warm breath, they touch us with soft 
responsive hands, they look at us with sad, sincere eyes, and 
speak to us in appealing tones ; they are clothed in a living 
human soul, with all its conflicts, its faith, and its love. Then 
their presence is a power, then they shake us like a passion, 
and we are drawn after them with gentle compulsion, as 
flame is drawn to flame. 

Janet’s dark grand face, still fatigued had become quite 
calm, and looked up, as she sat, with a humble, childlike ex- 
pression at the thin blond face and slightly sunken gray eyes 
which now shone with hectic brightness. She might have 
been taken for an image of passionate strength beaten and 
worn with conflict ; and he for an image of the self-renounc- 
ing faith which has soothed that conflict into rest. As he 
looked at the sweet submissive face, he remembered its look 
of despairing anguish, and his heart was very full as he turned 
away from her. “ Let me only live to see this work confirmed, 
and then . . . .” 

It was nearly ten o’clock when Mr. Tryan left, but Janet 
was bent on sending for her mother ; so Mrs. Pettifer, as the 
readiest plan, put on her bonnet and went herself to fetch 
Mrs. Raynor. The mother had been too long used to expect 


JANET'S EEPENTAA^CE. 


299 

that every fresh week would be more painful than the last, for 
Mrs. Pettifer’s news to come upon her with the shock of a 
surprise. Quietly, without any show of distress, she made up 
a bundle of clothes, and, telling her little maid that she should 
not return home that night, accompanied Mrs. Pettifer back 
in silence. 

When they entered the parlor, Janet, wearied out, had 
sunk to sleep in the large chair, which stood with its back to 
the door. The noise of the opening door disturbed her, and 
she was looking round wonderingly, when Mrs. Raynor came 
up to her chair, and said, “ It’s your mother, Janet.” 

“ Mother, dear mother ! ” Janet cried, clasping her closely. 
“ I have not been a good tender child to you, but I tvill be — 
I will not grieve you any more.” 

The calmness which had withstood a new sorrow was 
overcome by a new, joy, and the mother burst into tears. 


CHAPTER XX. 

On Sunday morning the rain had ceased, and Janet, look- 
ing out of the bed-room window, saw, above the house-tops, 
a shining mass of white cloud rolling under the far-away blue 
sky. It was going to be a lovely April day. The fresh sky, 
left clear and calm after the long vexation of wind and rain, 
mingled its mild influence with Janet’s new thoughts and 
prospects. She felt a buoyant courage that surprised herself, 
after the cold, crushing weight of despondency which had 
oppressed her the day before : she could think even of her 
husband’s rage without the old overpowering dread. For a 
delicious hope — the hope of purification and inward peace — 
had entered into Janet’s soul, and made it spring-time there 
as well as in the outer world. 

While her mother was brushing and coiling up her thick 
black hair — a favorite task, because it seemed to renew the 
days of her daughter’s girlhood — Janet told how she came to 
send for Mr. Tryan, how she had remembered their meeting 
at Sally Martin’s in the autumn, and had felt an irresistible 
desire to see him, and tell him her sins and her troubles. 

“ I see God’s goodness now, mother, in ordering it so 
that we should meet in that way, to overcome my prejudice 
against him, and make me feel that he was good, and then 


SCEA^ES OE CLERICAL LIFE, 


300 

bringing back to my mind in the depth of my trouble. 
You know what foolish things I used to say about him, know* 
ing nothing of him all the while. And yet he was the man 
who was to give me comfort and help when everything else 
failed me. It is wonderful how I feel able to speak to him 
as I never have done to any one before ; and how every word 
he says to me enters my heart and has a new meaning for me. 
I think it must be because he has felt life more deeply than 
others, and has a deeper faith. 1 believe everything he says 
at once. His words come to me like rain on the parched 
ground. It has always seemed to me before as if I could see 
behind people’s words, as one sees behind a screen ; but in 
Mr. Tryan it is his very soul that speaks.” 

“ Well, my dear child, I love and bless him for your sake, 
if he has given you any comfort. I never believe the harm 
people said of him, though I had no desire to go and hear 
him, for I am contented with old-fashioned ways. I find 
more good teaching than I can practise in reading my Bible 
at home, and hearing Mr. Crewe at church. But your wants 
are different, my dear, and we are not all led by the same 
road. That was certainly good advice of Mr. Tryan’s you 
told me of last night — that we should consult some one that 
may interfere for you with your husband ; and I have been 
turning it over in my mind while I’ve been lying awake in the 
night. I think nobody will do so well as Mr. Benjamin 
Landor, for we must have a man that knows the law, and that 
Robert is rather afraid of. And perhaps he could bring about 
an agreement for you to live apart. Your husband’s bound 
to maintain you, you know ; and, if you liked, we could move 
away from Milby and live somewhere else.” 

“ Oh, mother, we must do nothing yet ; I must think about 
it a little longer. I have a different feeling this morning from 
what I had yesterday. Something seems to tell me that I 
must go back to Robert some time — after a little while. I 
loved him once better than all the world, and I have never 
had any children to love. There were things in me that were 
wrong, and J should like to make up for them if I can.” 

“ Well, my dear, I won’t persuade you. Think of it a little 
longer. But something must be done soon.” 

“ How I wish I had my bonnet and shawl and black gown 
here!” said Janet, after a few minutes’ silence. “ I should 
like to go to Paddiford church and hear Mr. Tryan. There 
would be no fear of my meeting Robert, for he never goes out 
on a Sunday morning.” 


JANETS REPENTANCE. 301 

“ I’m afraid it would not do for me to go to the house and 
fetch your clothes,” said Mrs. Raynor. 

“ Oh, no, no ! I must stay quietly here while you two go 
to church. I will be Mrs. Pettifer’s maid, and get the dinner 
ready for her by the time she comes back. Dear good wo- 
man ! She was so tender to me when she took me in, in the 
night, mother, and all the next day, when I couldn’t speak a 
work to her to thank her.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

The servants at Dempster’s felt some surprise when the 
morning, noon, and evening of Saturday had passed, and still 
their mistress did not reappear. 

“ IPs very odd,” said Kitty, the housemaid, as she trim- 
med her next week’s cap, while Betty, the middle-aged cook, 
looked on with folded arms. “ Do you think as Mrs. Raynor 
was ill and sent for the missis afore we was up ? ” 

“ Oh,” said Betty, “ if it had been that, she’d ha’ been 
back’ards an’ for’ards three or four times afore now ; least- 
ways, she’d ha’ sent little Ann to let us know.” 

“ There’s summat up more nor usal between her an’ the 
master, that you may depend on,” said Kitty. “ I know 
those clothes as was lying i’ the drawing-room yesterday, 
when the company was come, meant summat. I shouldn’t 
wonder if that was what they’ve had a fresh row about. She’s 
p’raps gone away, an’s made up her mind not to come back 
again.” 

“ An’ i’ the right on’t, too,” said Betty. “ I’d ha’ over- 
run him long afore now, if it had been me. I wouldn’t stan’ 
bein’ mauled as she is by no husband, not if he was the 
biggest lord i’ the land. It’s poor work bein’ a wife at that 
price : I’d sooner be a cook wi’out perkises, an’ hev roast, an’ 
boil, an’ fry, an’ bake, all to mind at once. She may well do 
as she does. I know, I’m glad enough of a drop o’ summat 
myself when I’m plagued. I feel very low, like, to-night ; I 
think I shall put my beer i’ the saucepan an’ warm it.” 

“ What a one you are for warmin’ your beer, Betty ! I 
couldn’t abide it — nasty bitter stuff ! ” 

“ It’s fine talkin’ ; if you was a cook you’d know what be- 


302 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


longs to bein’ a cook. It’s none so nice to hev a sinkin’ at 
your stomach, I can teli you. You wouldn’t think so much o’ 
fine ribbins i’ your cap then.” 

“ Well, well, Betty, don’t be grumpy. Liza Thomson, as 
is at Phipps’s, said to me last Sunday, ‘ I wonder you’ll stay 
at Dempster’s,’ she says, ‘ such goins-on as there is.’ But I 
says, ‘There’s things to put up wi’ in ivery place, an’ you may 
change, an’ change, an’ not better yourself when all’s said an’ 
done.’ Lors ! why, Liza told me herself as Mrs. Phipps was 
as skinny as skinny i’ the kitchen, for all they keep so much 
company ; and as for follyers, she’s as cross as a turkey-cock 
if she finds ’em out. There’s nothin’ o’ that sort i’ the missis. 
How pretty she come an’ spoke to Job last Sunday ! There 
isn’t a good-natur’der woman i’ the world, that’s my belief — 
an’ hansome too. I al’ys think there’s nobody looks half so 
well as the missis when she’s got her ’air done nice. Lors ! 
I wish I’d got long ’air like her — my ’air’s a-comin’ off dread- 
ful.” 

“ There’ll be fine work to-morrow, I expect,” said Betty, 
“when the master comes home, an’ Dawes a-swearin’ as he’ll 
niver do a stroke o’ work for him again. It’ll be good fun if 
he sets the justice on him for cuttin’ him wi’ the whip ; the 
master’ll p’raps get his comb cut for once in his life ! ” 

“Why, he was in a temper like a fi-end this morning,” 
said Kitty. “ I daresay it was along o’ what had happened 
wi’ the missis. We shall hev a pretty house wi’ him if she 
doesn’t come back — he’ll want to be leatherin’ us., I shouldn’t 
wonder. He must hev somethin’ t’ ill-use when he's in a 
passion.” 

“ I’d tek care he didn’t leather me — no, not if he was my 
husban’ ten times o’er ; I’d pour hot drippin’ on him sooner. 
But the missis hasn’t a sperrit like me. He’ll mek her come 
back, you’ll see ; he’ll come round her somehow. There’s no 
likelihood of her coming back to-night, though ; so I should 
think we might fasten the doors and go to bed when we like.” 

On Sunday morning, however. Kitty’s mind became dis- 
turbed by more definite and alarming conjectures about her 
mistress. While Betty, encouraged by the prospect of un- 
wonted leisure, was sitting down to continue a letter which 
had long lain unfinished between the leaves of her Bible, 
Kitty came running into the kitchen and said, 

“Lor! Betty, I’m all of a tremble ; you might knock me 
down wi’ a feather. I’ve just looked into the missis’s ward- 
robe, an’ there’s both her bonnets. She must ha gone wi’out 


/AA^E T'S REPENTANCE. 


303 

her bonnet. An’ then I remember her night-clothes wasn’t 
on the bed yisterday mornin’ ; I thought she’d put ’em away 
to be washed ; but she hedn’t, for I’ve been lookin’. It’s my 
belief he’s murdered her, and shut her up i’ that closet as he 
keeps locked al’ys. He’s capible on’t.” 

“ Lors-ha-massy, why you’d better run to Mrs. Raynor’s 
an’ see if she’s there, arter all. It was p’raps all a lie.” 

Mrs. Raynor had returned home to give directions to her 
little maiden, when Kitty, with the elaborate manifestation 
of alarm which servants delight in, rushed in without knock- 
ing, and, holding her hands on her heart as if the consequences 
to that organ were likely to be very serious, said, 

“ If you please ’m, is the misses here ? ” 

“ No, Kitty ; why are you come to ask ? ” 

“ Because ’m, she’s niver been at home since yesterday 
mornin’, since afore we was up ] an’ we thought somethin’ 
must ha’ happened to her.” 

“ No, don’t be frightened, Kitty. Your mistress is quite 
safe ; I know where she is. Is your master at home ? ” 

“ No ’m ; he went out yesterday mornin’, an’ said he 
shouldn’t be back afore to-night.” 

“ Well, Kitty, there’s nothing the matter with your mis- 
tress. You needn’t say anything to any one about her be- 
ing away from home. I shall call presently and fetch her 
gown and bonnet. She wants them to put on.” 

Kitty, perceiving there was a mystery she was not to in- 
quire into, returned to Orchard Street, really glad to know 
that her mistress was safe, but disappointed nevertheless at 
being told that she was not to be frightened. She was soon 
follov/ed by Mrs. Raynor^in quest of the gown and bonnet. 
The good mother, on learning that Dempster was not at 
home, had at once thought that she could gratify Janet’s 
wish to go to Paddiford Church. 

“ See, my dear,” she said, as she entered Mrs. Pettifer’s 
parlor ; “ I’ve brought you your black clothes. Robert’s not 
at home, and is not coming till this evening. I couldn’t find 
your best black gown, but this will do. I wouldn’t bring any- 
thing else, you know ; but there can’t be any objection to my 
fetching clothes to cover you. You can go to Paddiford 
Church, now, if you like ; and I will go with you.” 

“ That’s a dear mother ! Then we’ll all three go together. 
Come and help me to get ready. Good little Mrs. Crewe ! 
It will vex her sadly that I should go to hear Mr. Tryan. 
But I must kiss her, and make it up with her.” 


304 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


Many eyes were turned on Janet with a look of surprise as 
she walked up the aisle of Paddiford Church. She felt a lit- 
tle tremor at the notice she knew she was exciting, but it was 
a strong satisfaction to her that she had been able at once to 
take a step that would let her neighbors know her change of 
feeling towards Mr. Tryan : she had left herself now no room 
for proud reluctance or weak hesitation. The walk through 
the sweet spring air had stimulated all her fresh hopes, all 
her yearning desires after purity, strength, and peace. She 
thought she should find a new meaning in the prayers this 
morning ; her full heart, like an overflowing river, wanted 
those ready-made channels to pour itself into , and then she 
should hear Mr. Tryan again, and his words would fall on her 
like precious balm, as they had done last night. There was a 
liquid brightness in her eyes as they rested on the mere walls, 
the pews, the weavers and colliers in their Sunday clothes. 
The commonest things seemed to touch the spring of love 
within her, just as, when we are suddenly released from an 
acute absorbing bodily pain, our heart and senses leap out in 
new freedom ; we think even the noise of streets harmonious, 
and ready to hug the tradesman who is wrapping up our 
change. A door had been opened in Janet’s cold dark prison 
of self-despair, and the golden light of morning was pouring 
in its slanting beams through the blessed opening. I'here 
was sunlight in the world ; there was divine love caring for 
her ; it had given her an earnest of good things ; it had been 
preparing comfort for her in the very moment when she had 
thought herself most forsaken. 

Mr. Tryan might well rejoice wjien his eye rested on her 
as he entered his desk , but he rejoiced with trembling. He 
could not look at the sweet hopeful face without remember- 
ing its yesterday’s look of agony ; and there was the possibil- 
ity that that look might return. 

Janet’s appearance at church was greeted not only by 
wondering eyes, but by kind hearts, and after the service sev- 
eral of Mr. Tryan’s hearers with whom she had been on cold 
terms of late, contrived to come up to her and take her by 
the hand. 

“ Mother,” said Miss Linnet, “do let us go and speak to 
Mrs. Dempster. I’m sure there’s a great change in her mind 
towards Mr. Tryan. I noticed how eagerly she listened to 
the sermon, and she’s come with Mrs. Pettifer, you see. We 
ought to go and give her a welcome among us.’' 

“ Why, my dear, we’ve never spoke friendly these five 


JANET’S REPENTANCE, 


305 

years. You know she’s been as haughty as anything since I 
quarrelled with her husband. However, let bygones be by- 
gones ; I’ve no grudge again’ the poor thing, more particular 
as she must ha’ flew in her husband’s face to come and hear 
Mr. Tryan. Yes, let us go an’ speak to her.” 

The friendly words and looks touched Janet a little too 
keenly, and Mrs. Pettifer wisely hurried her home by the 
least-frequented road. When they reached home, a violent 
fit of weeping, followed by continuous lassitude, showed that 
the emotions of the morning had overstrained her nerves She 
was suffering, too, from the absence of the long-accustomed 
stimulus which she had promised Mr. Tryan not to touch 
again. The poor thing was conscious of this, and dreaded 
her own weakness, as the victim of intermittent insanity 
dreads the oncoming of the old illusion. 

“ Mother,” she whispered, when Mrs. Raynor urged her to 
lie down and rest all the afternoon, that she might be the 
better prepared to see Mr. Tryan in the evening — “mother, 
don’t let me have anything if I ask for it.” 

In the mother’s mind there was the same anxiety, and in 
her it was mingled with another fear — the fear least Janet, in 
her present excited state of mind, should take some premature 
step in relation to her husband, which might lead back to all 
the former troubles. The hint she had thrown out in the 
morning of her wish to return to him after a time, showed a 
new eagerness for difficult duties, that only made the long- 
saddened sober mother tremble. 

But as evening approached, Janet’s morning heroism all 
forsook her ; her imagination, influenced by physical depres- 
sion as well as by mental habits, was haunted by the vision 
of her husband’s return home, and f.He began to shudder with 
the yesterday’s dread. She heard him calling her, she saw 
him going to her mother’s to look for her, she felt sure he 
would find her out, and burst in upon her. 

“ Pray, pray, don’t leave me, don't go to church,” she said 
to Mrs. Pettifer. “ You and mother both stay with me till Mr. 
Tryan comes.” 

At twenty minutes past six the church bells were ringing 
for the evening service, and soon the congregation was stream- 
ing along Orchard Street in the mellow sunset. The street 
opened towards the west. The red half-sunken sun shed a 
solemn splendor on the every-day houses, and crimsoned the 
windows of Dempster’s projecting upper story. 

Suddenly a loud murmur arose and spread along the stream 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


306 

of church-goers, and one group after another paused and looked 
backward. At the far end of the street, men, accompanied 
by a miscellaneous group of onlookers, were slowly carrying 
something— a body stretched on a door. Slowly they passed 
along the middle of the street, lined all the way with awe- 
struck faces, till they turned aside and paused in the red sun- 
light before Dempster’s door. 

It was Dempster’s body. No one knew whether he was 
alive or dead. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

It was probably a hard saying to the Pharisees, that 
“ there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, 
than over ninety and nine just persons that need no repent- 
ance.” And certain ingenious philosophers of our own day 
must surely take offence at a joy so entirely out of correspond- 
ence with arithmetii al proportion. But a heart that has 
been taught by its own sore struggles to bleed for the woes 
of another — that has “ learned pity through suffering ” — is 
likely to find very imperfect satisfaction in the “ balance of 
happiness,” “ doctrine of compensations,” and other short and 
easy methods of obtaining thorough complacency in the 
presence of pain ; and for such a heart that saying will not be 
altogether dark. The emotions, I have observed, are but 
slightly influenced by arithmetical considerations : the mother, 
when her sweet lisping little ones have all been taken from 
her one after another, and she is hanging over her last dead 
babe, finds small consolation in the fact that the tiny dimpled 
corpse is but one of a necessary average, and that a thousand 
other babes brought into the world at the same time are doing 
well, and are likely to live ; and if you stood beside that 
mother — if you knew her pang and shared it — it is probable 
you would be equally unable to see a ground of complacency 
in statistics. 

Doubtless a complacency resting on that basis is highly 
rational ; but emotion, I fear, is obstinately irrational : it in- 
sists on caring for individuals ; it absolutely refuses to adopt 
the quantitative view of human anguish, and to admit that 
thirteen happy lives are a set off against twelve miserable 
lives, which leaves a clear balance on the side of satisfaction. 


JANErS REPENTANCE. 


.>07 

This is the inherent imbecility of feeling, and one must be a 
great philosopher to have got quite clear of all that, and to 
have emerged into the serene air of pure intellect, in which it 
is evident that individuals really exist for no other purpose 
than that abstractions may be drawn from them — abstractions 
that may rise from heaps of ruined lives like the sweet savor 
of a sacrifice in the nostrils of philosophers, and of a philo- 
sophic Deity. And so it comes to pass that for the man who 
knows sympathy because he has known sorrow, that old, old 
saying about the joy of angels over the repentant sinner out- 
weighing their joy over the ninety-nine just, has a meaning 
which does not jar with the language of his own heart. It 
only tells him, that for angels too there is a transcendent value 
in human pain, which refuses to be settled by equations ; that 
the eyes of angels too are turned away from the serene hap- 
piness of the righteous to bend with yearning pity on the poor 
erring soul wandering in the desert w-here no water is ; that 
for angels too the misery of one casts so tremendous a shadow' 
as to eclipse the bliss of ninety-nine. 

Mr. Tryan had gone through the initiation of suffering: it 
is no wonder, then, that Janet’s restoration w'as the work that 
lay nearest his heart ; and that, w'eary as he w'as in body wdien 
he entered the vqstry after the evening service, he was impa- 
tient to fulfil the promise of seeing her. His experience en- 
abled him to divine — what w'as the fact — that the hopefulness 
of the morning would be follow'ed by a return of depression 
and discouragement ; and his sense of the inward and outward 
difficulties in the way of her restoration was so keen, that he 
could only find relief from the foreboding it excited by lifting 
up his heart in prayer. There are unseen elements which 
often frustrate our wisest calculations — which raise up the 
sufferer from the edge of the grave, contradicting the prophe- 
cies of the clear-sighted physician, and fulfilling the blind 
clinging hopes of affection ; such unseen elements Mr. Tryan 
called the Divine Will, and filled up the margin of ignorance 
which surrounds all our knowledge with the feelings of trust 
and resignation. Perhaps the profoundest philosophy could 
hardly fill it up better. 

His mind was occupied in this way as he was absently 
taking off his gown, when Mr. Landor startled him by enter- 
ing the vestry and asking abruptly, 

“ Have you heard the news about Dempster ? ” 

“ No,’' said Mr. Tryan, anxiously ; “ what is it ? ” 

“ He has been thrown out of his gig in the Bridge Way, 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


308 

and he was taken up for dead. They were carrying him home 
as we were coming to church, and I staid behind to see what 
I could do. I went in to speak to Mrs. Dempster, and pre- 
pare her a little, but she was not at home. Dempster is not 
dead, however ; he was stunned with the fall. Pilgrim came 
in a few minutes, and he says the right leg is broken in two 
places. It’s likely to be a terrible case, with his state of 
body. It seems he was more drunk than usual, and they say 
he came along the Bridge Way flogging his horse like a mad- 
man, till at last it gave a sudden wheel, and he was pitched 
out. The servants said they didn’t know where Mrs, 
Dempster was : she had been away from home since yesterday 
morning ; but Mrs. Raynor knew.” 

“ I know where she is,” said Mr. Tryan ; “ but I think it 
will be better for her not to be told of this just yet.” 

Ah, that was what Pilgrim said, and so I didn’t go round 
to Mrs. Raynor’s. He said it would be all the better if Mrs, 
Dempster could be kept out of the house for the present. 
Do you know if anything new has happened between Demp- 
ster and his wife lately ? I was surprised to hear of her being 
at Paddiford Church this morning.” 

“ Yes, something has happened ; but I believe she is 
anxious that the particulars of his behavior towards her should 
not be known. She is at Mrs. Pettifer’s — there is no reason 
for concealing that, since what has happened to her husband ; 
and yesterday, when she was in very deep trouble, she sent 
for me. I was very thankful she did so : I believe a great 
change of feeling has begun in her. But she is at present in 
that excitable state of mind — she has been shaken by so 
many painful emotions during the last two days, that I think 
it would be better, for this evening at least, to guard her from 
a new shock, if possible. But I am going now to call upon 
her, and I shall see how she is.” 

“ Mr. Tryan,” said Mr. Jerome, who had entered during 
the dialogue, and had been standing by, listening with a dis- 
tressed face, “ I shall take it as a favor if you’ll let me know 
if iver there’s anything I can do for Mrs. Dempster. Eh, 
dear, what a world this is ! I think I see ’em fifteen year 
ago— as happy a young couple as iver was ; and now, what 
it’s all come to ! I was in a hurry like, to punish Dempster 
for pessecutin’, but there was a stronger hand at work nor 
mine.” 

“ Yes, Mr. Jerome ; but don’t let us rejoice in punishment, 
even when the hand of God alone inflicts it. The best of us 


JANET^S REPENTANCE, 


309 

are but poor wretches just saved from shipwreck : can we feel 
anything but awe and pity when we see a fellow-passenger 
swallowed by the waves ? ” 

“ Right, right, Mr Tryan. I’m over hot and hasty, that 
I am. But I beg on you to tell Mrs. Dempster — I mean, in 
course, when you’ve an opportunity — tell her she’s a friend 
at the White House as she may send for any hour o’ the day.” 

“ Yes j I shall have an opportunity, I dare say, and I will 
remember your wish. I think,” continued Mr. Tryan, turning 
to Mr. Landor, “ I had better see Mr. Pilgrim on my way, 
and learn what is exactly the state of things by this time. 
What do you think ? ” 

“ By all means : if Mrs. Dempster is to know, there’s no 
one can break the news to her so well as you. I’ll walk with 
you to Dempster’s door. I dare say Pilgrim is there still. 
Come, Mr, Jerome, you’ve got to go our way too, to fetch 
your horse.” 

Mr. Pilgrim was in the passage giving some directions to 
his assistant, when, to his surprise, he saw Mr. Tryan enter. 
They shook hands ; for Mr. Pilgrim, never having joined the 
party of the Anti-Try a nites, had no ground for resisting the 
growing conviction that the Evangelical curate was really a 
good fellow, though he was a fool for not taking better care of 
himself. 

“ Why, I didn’t expect to see you in your old enemy’s 
quarters,” he said to Mr. Tryan. “ However, it will be a 
good while before poor Dempster shows any fight again.” 

“ I came on Mrs. Dempster’s account,” said Mr. Tryan. 
“ She is staying at Mrs. Pettifer’s ; she has had a great shock 
from some severe domestic trouble lately, and I think it will 
be -wise to defer telling her of this dreadful event for a short 
time.” 

“Why, what has been up, eh? ” said Mr. Pilgrim, whose 
curiosity was at once awakened. “ She used to be no friend 
of yours. Has there been some split between them ? It’s a 
new thing for her to turn round on him.” 

“ Oh, merely an exaggeration of scenes that must often 
have happened before. But the question now is, whether 
you think there is any immediate danger of her husband’s 
death ; for in that case, I think, from what I have observed 
of her feelings, she would be pained afterwards to have been 
kept in ignorance.” 

“ Well, there’s no telling in these cases, you know. I 
don’t apprehend speedy death, and it is not absolutely impos- 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


310 

sible that we may bring him round again. At present he’s in 
a state of apoplectic stupor ; but if that subsides, delirium is 
almost sure to supervene, and we shall have some painful 
scenes. It’s one of those complicated cases in which the de- 
lirium is likely to be of the worst kind — meningitis and delir- 
ium tremens together — and we may have a good deal of trou- 
ble with him. If Mrs. Dempster were told, I should say it 
would be desirable to persuade her to remain out of the house 
at present. She could do no good, you know. I’ve got 
nurses.” 

“Thank you,” said Mr. Tryan. “That is what I wanted 
to know. Good-by.” 

When Mrs. Pettifer opened the door for Mr. Tryan, he 
told her in a few words what had happened, and begged her 
to take an opportunity of letting Mrs. Raynor know, that they 
might, if possible, concur in preventing a premature or sudden 
disclosure of the event to Janet. 

“ Poor thing ! ” said Mrs. Pettifer. “ She’s not fit to hear 
any bad news ; she’s very low this evening — worn out with 
feeling j and she’s not had anything to keep her up, as she’s 
been used to. She seems frightened at the thought of being 
tempted to take it.” 

“ Thank God for it ; that fear is her greatest security.” 

When Mr. Tryan entered the parlor this time, Janet was 
again awaiting him eagerly, and her pale sad face was 
lighted up with a smile as she rose to meet him. But the next 
moment she said, with a look of anxiety, 

“ How very ill and tired you look I You have been work- 
ing so hard all day, and yet you are come to talk to me. Oh, 
you are wearing yourself out. I must go and ask Mrs. 
Pettifer to come and make you have some supper. But this 
is my mother ; you have not seen her before, I think.” 

While Mr. Tryan was speaking to Mrs. Raynor, Janet 
hurried out, and he, seeing that this good-natured thought- 
fulness on his behalf would help to counteract her depression, 
was not inclined to oppose her wish, but accepted the supper 
Mrs. Pettifer offered him, quietly talking the while about a 
clothing club he was going to establish in Paddiford, and the 
want of provident habits among the poor. 

Presently, however, Mrs. Raynor said she must go home 
for an hour, to see how her little maiden was going on, and 
Mrs. Pettifer left the room with her to take the opportunity 
of telling her what had happened to Dempster. When Janet 
vves left alone with Mr. Tryan, she said. 


JANE'rS REPENTANCE. 


3n 

“ I feel so uncertain what to do about my husband, I am 
so weak — my feeling changes so from hour to hour. This 
morning, when I felt so hopeful and happy, I thought I should 
like to go back to him, and try to make up for what has been 
wrong in me. I thought, now God would help me, and I 
should have you to teach and advise me, and I could bear 
the troubles that would come. But since then — all this after- 
noon and evening — I have had the same feelings I used to 
have, the same dread of his anger and cruelty, and it seems 
to me as if I should never be able to bear it" without falling 
into the same sins, and doing just what I did before. 
Yet if it were settled that I should live apart from him, I 
know it would always be a load on my mind that I had shut 
myself out from going back to him. It seems a dreadful 
thing in life, when any one has been so near to one as a hus- 
band for fifteen years, to part and be nothing to each other 
any more. Surely that is a very strong tie, and I feel as if 
my duty can never lie quite away from it. It is very difficult 
to know what to do : what ought I to do? ” 

“ I think it will be well not to take any decisive step yet. 
Wait until your mind is calmer. You might remain with your 
mother for a little while ; I think you have no real ground 
br fearing any annoyance from your husband at present ; he 
has put himself too much in the wrong ; he will very likely 
leave you unmolested for some time. Dismiss this difficult 
question from your mind just now, if you can. Every new 
day may bring you new grounds for decision, and what is 
most needful for your health of mind is repose from that 
haunting anxiety about the future which has been preying on 
you. Cast yourself on God, and trust that he will direct 
you ; he will make your duty clear to you, if you wait submis- 
sively on him.” 

“ Yes; I will wait a little, as you tell me. I will go to my 
mother’s to-morrow, and pray to be guided rightly. You will 
pray for me, too.” 


312 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

The next morning Janet was so much calmer, and at 
breakfast spoke so decidedly of going to her mother’s, that 
Mrs. Pettifer and Mrs. Raynor agreed it would be wise to let 
her know by degrees what had befallen her husband, since as 
soon as she went out there would be danger of her meeting 
some one who would betray the fact. But Mrs. Raynor 
thought it would be well first to call at Dempster’s, and as- 
certain how he was : so she said to Janet, 

“ My dear. I’ll go home first, and see to things and get 
your room ready. You needn’t come yet, you know. I shall 
be back again in an hour or so, and we can go together.” 

“ Oh no,” said Mrs. Pettifer. “ Stay with me till evening. 
I shall be lost without you. You needn’t go till quite even- 
ing.” 

Janet had dipped into the “ Life of Henry Martyn,” which 
Mrs. Pettifer had from the Paddiford Lending Library, and 
her interest was so arrested by that pathetic missionary story, 
that she readily acquiesced in both propositions, and Mrs. 
Raynor set out. 

She had been gone more than an hour, and it was nearly 
twelve o’clock, when Janet put down her book ; and after sit- 
ting meditatively for some minutes with her eyes unconsciously 
fixed on the opposite wall, she rose, went to her bedroom, 
and, hastily putting on her bonnet and shawl, came dowm to 
Mrs. Pettifer, who was busy in the kitchen. 

Mrs. Pettifer,” she said, “ tell mother, when she comes 
back, I’m gone to see what has become of those poor Lakins 
in Butcher Lane. I know they’re half starving, and I’ve ne- 
glected them so, lately. And then, I think. I’ll go on to Mrs. 
Crewe. I want to see the dear little woman, and tell her 
myself about my going to hear Mr. Tryan. She won’t feel it 
half so much if I tell her myself.” 

“ Won’t you wait till your mother comes, or put it off till 
to-morrow ? ” said Mrs. Pettifer, alarmed. “ You’ll hardly be 
back in time for dinner, if you get talking to Mrs. Crewe. 
And you’ll have to pass by your husband’s, you know ; and 
yesterday you were so afraid of seeing him.” 

“ Oh, Robert will be shut up at the office now, if he’s not 
gone out of the town. I must go — I feel I must be doing 


/AATET^S jREPENTANCE 


313 


something for some one— not be a mere useless log any longer 
I ve been reading about that wonderful Henry Martyn ; he’s 
just like Mr Tryan— wearing himself out for other people, 
and I sit thinking of nothing but myself. I must go. Good- 
by j I shall be back soon.” 


She ran off before Mrs. Pettifer could utter another word 
or dissuasion, leaving the good woman in considerable anxiety 
lest this new impulse of Janet’s should frustrate all precau- 
tions to save her from a sudden shock. 

^ Janet having paid her visit in Butcher Lane, turned a<-ain 
into Orchard Street on her way to Mrs. Crewe’s, and °was 
thinking, rather sadly, that her mother’s economical house- 
keeping would leave no abundant surplus to be sent to the 
hungry Lakins, when she saw Mr. Pilgrim in advance of her 
on the other side of the street. He was walking at a rapid 
pace, and when he reached Dempster’s door he turned and 
entered without knocking. 

Janet was startled. Mr. Pilgrim would never enter in that 
way unless there was some one very ill in the house. It was 
her husband ; she felt certain of it at once. Something had 
happened to him. Without a moment’s pause, she ran across 
the street, opened the door, and entered. There was no one 
in the passage. The dining-room door was wide open — no 
one was there. Mr. Pilgrim, then, was already up stairs. She 
rushed up at once to Dempster’s room — her own room. The 
door was open, and she paused in pale horror at the sight 
before her, which seemed to stand out only with the more ap- 
palling distinctness because the noonday light was darkened 
to twilight in the chamber. 

Two strong nurses were using their utmost force to hold 
Dempster in bed, while the medical assistant was applying a 
sponge to his head, and Mr. Pilgrim was busy adjusting some 
apparatus in the background. Dempster’s face was purple 
and swollen, his eyes dilated, and fixed with a look of dire 
terror on something he seemed to see approaching him from 
the iron closet. He trembled violently, and struggled as if to 
jump out of bed. 

“ Let me go, let me go,” he said in a loud, hoarse whisper; 
“ She’s coming .... she’s cold .... she’s dead .... 
she’ll strangle me with her black hair. Ah ! ” he shrieked 
aloud, “ her hair is all serpents .... they’re black serpents 
. . . . they hiss .... they hiss .... let me go .... let 
me go ... . she wants to drag me with her cold arms .... 
her arms are serpents .... they are great white serpents 


314 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


.... they’ll twine round me .... she wants to drag me 
into the cold water .... her bosom is cold .... it is 
black .... it is all serpents ...” 

“ No, Robert,” Janet cried, in tones of yearning pity, rush- 
ing to the side of the bed, and stretching out her arms towards 
him, “ no, here is Janet. She is not dead — she forgives you.” 

Dempster’s maddened senses seemed to receive some new 
impression from her appearance. The terror gave way to 
rage. 

“ Ha ! you sneaking hypocrite ” he burst out in a grating 
voice, “ you threaten me .... you mean to have your 
revenge on me, do you ? Do your worst ! I’ve got the law 
on my side .... I know the law .... I’ll hunt you down 
like a hare .... prove it ... . prove that I was tampered 
with .... prove that I took the money .... prove it . . . 
you can prove nothing .... you damned psalm-singing 
maggots ! I’ll make a fire under you, and smoke off the whole 
pack of you .... I’ll sweep you up ... . I’ll grind you to 
powder .... small powder .... (here his voice dropped 
to a low' tone of shuddering disgust) .... powder on the 
bed clothes .... running about .... black fire .... they 
are coming in swarms .... Janet ! come and take them 
away .... curse you ! why don’t you come } Janet ! ” 

Poor Janet was kneeling by the bed with her face buried 
in her hands. She almost wished her worst moment back 
again rather than this. It seemed as if her husband was 
already imprisoned in misery, and she could not reach him — 
his ear deaf forever to the sounds of love and forgiveness. 
His sins had made a hard crust round his soul ; her pitying 
voice could not pierce it. 

“Not there, isn’t she?” he went on in a defiant tone, 
“ Why do you ask me where she is ? I’ll have every drop of 
yellow blood out of your veins if you come questioning me. 
Your blood is yellow .... in your purse .... running 
out of your purse .... What ! you’re changing it into toads, 
are you ? They’re crawling .... they’re flying .... they’re 
flying about my head .... the toads are %ing about. Ost- 
ler ! ostler bring out my gig .... bring it out, you lazy 
beast .... ha ! you’ll follow me, will you ? . . . . you’ll fly 
about my head .... you’ve got fiery tongues .... Ostler ! 
curse you ! why don’t you come ? Janet ! come and take the 
toads away .... Janet!” 

This last time he uttered her name with such a shriek of 
terror, that Janet involuntarily started up from her knees, and 


JANETS EEPENTANCE. 


315 

Stood as if petrified by the horrible vibration. Dempster 
stared wildly in silence for some moments j then he spoke 
again in a hoarse whisper : 

“ Dead .... is she dead ? Ske did it, then. She 
buried herself in the iron chest .... she left her clothes 
out, though .... she isn’t dead .... why do you pretend 
she’s dead ? . . . . she’s coming .... she’s coming out of 
the iron closet .... there are the black serpents .... stop 
her .... let me go ... . stop her .... she wants to drag 
me away into the cold black water .... her bosom is black 
.... it is all serpents .... they are getting longer .... 
the great white serpents are getting longer .... 

Here Mr. Pilgrim came forward with the apparatus to 
bind him, but Dempter’s struggles became more and more 
violent. “ Ostler ! ostler I ” he shouted, “bring out the gig 
.... give me the whip ! ” — ^^and bursting loose from the 
strong hands that held him, he began to flog the bed-clothes 
furiously with his right arm. 

“ Get along, you lame brute ! — sc — sc — sc ! that’s it ! there 
you^o! They think they’ve outwitted me, do they? The 
sneaking idiots ! I’ll be up with them by and by. I’ll make 
them say the Lord’s Prayer backwards .... I’ll pepper 
them so that the devil shall eat them raw .... sc — sc — sc 
— we shall see who’ll be the winner yet .... get along, you 
damned limping beast .... I’ll lay your back open . . . . 
I’ll . . . .” 

He raised himself with a stronger effort than ever to flog 
the bed-clothes, and fell back in convulsions. Janet gave a 
scream, and sank on her knees again. She thought he was 
dead. 

As soon as Mr. Pilgrim was able to give her a moment’s 
attention, he came to her, and, taking her by the arm attempt- 
ed to draw her gently out of the room. 

“ Now, my dear Mrs. Dempster, let me persuade you not 
to remain in the room at present. We shall soon relieve these 
symptoms, I hope ; it is nothing but the delirium that ordi- 
narily attends such cases.” 

“ Oh, what is the matter ? what brought it on ? ” 

“ He fell out of the gig ; the right leg is broken. It is a 
terrible accident, and I don’t disguise that there is consider- 
able danger attending it, owing to the state of the brain. But 
Mr. Dempster has a strong constitution, you know ; in a few 
days these symptoms may be allayed, and he may do well. 
Let me beg of you to keep out of the room at present : you 


SCENES, OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


316 

can do no good until Mr. Dempster is better, and able to 
know you. But you ought not to be alone ; let me advise you 
to have Mrs. Raynor with you.” 

“ Yes I will send for mother. But you must not object 
to my being in the room. I shall be very quiet now, only just 
at first the shock was so great ; I knew nothing about it. I 
can help the nurses a great deal ; I can put the cold-things 
to his head. He may be sensible for a moment and know me. 
Pray do not say any more against it : my heart is set on being 
with him.” 

Mr. Pilgrim gave way, and Janet, having sent for her 
mother and put off her bonnet and shawl, returned to take 
her place by the side of her husband’s bed. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

• 

Day after day, with only short intervals of rest, Janet kept 
her place in that sad chamber. No wonder the sick-room 
and the lazaretto have so often been a refuge from the toss- 
ings of intellectual doubt — a place of repose for the worn 
and wounded spirit. Here is a duty about which all creeds 
and all philosophies are of one ; here, at least, the conscience 
will not be dogged by doubt, the benign impulse will not be 
checked by adverse theory : here you may begin to act with- 
out settling one preliminary question. To moisten the suf- 
ferer’s parched lips through the long night-watches, to bear 
up the drooping head, to lift the helpless limbs, to divine the 
want that can find no utterance beyond the feeble motion of 
the hand or beseeching glance of the eye — these are offices 
that demand no self-questionings, no casuistr}^ no assent to 
propositions, no weighing of consequences. Within the four 
walls where the stir and glare of the world are shut out, and 
every voice is subdued — where a human being lies prostrate, 
thrown on the tender mercies of his fellow, the moral relation 
of man to man is reduced to its utmost clearness and sim- 
plicity : bigotry cannot confuse it, theory cannot pervert 
it, passion, awed into quiescence, can neither pollute nor per- 
turb it. As we bend over the sick-bed, all the forces of 
our nature rush towards the channels of pity, of patience, 
and of love, and sweep down the miserable choking drift of 


JANETS REPENTANCE, 


317 


our quarrels, our debates, our would-be wisdom, and our 
clamorous selfish desires. This blessing of serene freedom 
from the importunities of opinion lies in all simple direct acts 
of mercy, and is one source of that sweet calm which is often 
felt by the watcher in the sick-room, even when the duties 
there are of a hard and terrible kind. 

Something of that benign result was felt by Janet during 
iier tendance in her husband’s chamber. When the first 
heart-piercing hours were over — when her horror at his delir- 
ium was no longer fresh, she began to be conscious of her 
relief from the burthen of decision as to her future course. 
The question that agitated her, about returning to her hus- 
band, had been solved in a moment ; and this illness, after 
all, might be the herald of another blessing, just as that 
dreadful midnight when she stood an outcast in cold and 
darkness had been followed by the dawn of a new hope. 
Robert would get better j this illness might alter him ; he 
would be a long time feeble, needing help, walking with a 
crutch, perhaps. She would wait on him with such tender- 
ness, such all-forgiving love, that the old harshness and cruelty 
must melt away forever under the heart-sunshine she would 
pour around him. Her bosom heaved at the .thought, and 
delicious tears fell. Janet’s was a nature in which hatred and 
revenge could find no place ; the long bitter years drew half 
their bitterness from her ever-living remembrance of the two 
short years of love that went before ; and the thought that 
her husband would ever put her hand to his lips again, and 
recall the days when they sat on the grass together, and he 
laid scarlet poppies on her black hair, and called her his gypsy 
queen, seemed to send a tide of loving oblivion over all the 
harsh and stony space they had traversed since. The Divine 
Love that had already shone upon her would be with her ; 
she would lift up her soul continually for help ; Mr. Tryan, 
she knew, would pray for her. If she felt herself failing, she 
would confess it to him at once ; if her feet began to slip, 
there was that stay for her to cling to. Oh, she could never 
be drawn back into that cold damp vault of sin and despair 
again ; she had felt the morning sun, she had tasted the sweet 
pure air of trust and penitence and submission. 

These were the thoughts passing through Janet’s mind as 
she hovered about her husband’s bed and these were the 
hopes she poured out to Mr. Tryan when he called to see her. 
It was so evident that they were strengthening her in her new 
struggle — they shed such a glow of calm enthusiasm over her 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


318 

^ace as she spoke of them, that Mr. Tryan could not bear to 
throw on them the chill of premonitory doubts, though a 
previous 'conversation he had had with Mr. Pilgrim had con- 
vinced him that there was not the laintest probability of 
Dempster’s recovery. Poor Janet did not know the signif- 
icance of the changing symptoms, and when, after the lapse 
of a week, the delirium began to lose some of its violence, 
and to be interrupted by longer and longer intervals of stupor, 
she tried 10 think that this might be steps on the way to re- 
covery, and she shrank from questioning Mr. Pilgrim lest he 
should confirm the fears that began to get predominance in 
her mind. But before many days were past, he thought it 
right not to allow her to blind herself any longer. One day 
it was just about noon, when bad news always seems most 
sickening — he led her from her husband’s chamber into the 
opposite drawing-room, where Mr. Raynor was sitting, and 
said to her, in that low tone of sympathetic feeling which 
sometimes gave a sudden air of gentleness to this rough 
man — 

“ My dear Mr. Dempster, it is right in these cases, you 
know, to be prepared for the worst. I think 1 shall be sav- 
ing you pain by preventing you from entertaining any false 
hopes, and Mr. Dempster’s state is now such that I fear we 
must consider recovery impossible. The affection of the 
brain might not have been hopeless, but, you see, there is a 
terrible complication ; and I am grieved to say the broken 
limb is mortifying.” 

Janet listened with a sinking heart. That future of love 
and forgiveness would never come, then : he was going out 
of her sight forever, where her pity could never reach him. 
She turned cold, and trembled. 

“ But do you think he will die,” she said, “ without ever 
coming to himself ? without ever knowing me ? ” 

“ One cannot say that with certainty. It is not impossi- 
ble that the cerebral oppression may subside, and that he may 
become conscious. If there is anything you would wish to 
be said or done in that case, it would be well to be prepared. 
I should think,” Mr. Pilgrim continued, turning to Mrs. Ray- 
nor, “ Mr. Dempster’s affairs are likely to be in order — his 
will is . . . 

“ Oh, I wouldn’t have him troubled about those things,” 
interrupted Janet, “ he has no relations but quite distant ones 
— no one but me. I wouldn’t take up the lime with that. I 
only want to . . . 


JANET'S REPENTANCE, 


319 


She was unable to finish ; she felt her sob rising, and left 
the room. “ O God ! ” she said inwardly, “ is not Thy love 
greater than mine ? Have mercy on him ! have mercy on 
him ! ” 

This happened on Wednesday, ten days after the fatal 
accident. By the following Sunday Dempster was in a state 
of rapidly increasing prostration ; and when Mr. Pilgrim, who, 
in turn with his assistant, had slept in the house from the 
beginning, came in, about half past ten, as usual, he scarcely 
believed that the feebly struggling life would last out till 
morning. For the last few days he had been administering 
stimulants to relieve the exhaustion which had succeeded the 
alternations of delirium and stupor. This slight office was all 
that now remained to be done for the patient ; so at eleven 
o’clock Mr. Pilgrim went to bed, having given directions to 
the nurse, and desired her to call him if any change took 
place, or if Mrs. Dempster desired his presence. 

Janet could not be persuaded to leave the room. She was 
yearning and watching for a moment in which her husband’s 
eyes would rest consciously upon her, and he would know 
that she had forgiven him. 

How changed he was since that terrible Monday, nearly 
a fortnight ago ! He lay motionless, but for the irregular 
breathing that stirred his broad chest and thick muscular 
neck. His features were no longer purple and swollen ; they 
were pale, sunken, and haggard. A cold perspiration stood 
in beads on the protuberant forehead, and on the wasted 
hands stretched motionless on the bed clothes. It was better 
to see the hands so, than convulsively picking the air, as they 
had been a week ago. 

Janet sat on the edge of the bed through the long hours 
of candle-light, watching the unconscious half-closed eyes, 
wiping the perspiration from the brow and cheeks, and keep- 
ing her left hand on the cold unanswering right hand that 
lay beside her on the bed-clothes. She was almost as pale as 
her dying husband, and there were dark lines under her eyes, 
for this was the third night since she had taken off her 
clothes; but the eager straining gaze of her dark eyes, and 
the acute sensibility that Iny in every line about her mouth, 
made a strange contrast with the blank unconsciousness and 
emaciated animalism of the face she was watching. 

There was profound stillness in the house. She heard no 
sound but her husband’s breathing and the ticking of the 
watch on th» mantel-piece. The candle, placed high up, shed 


320 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


a soft light clown on the one object she cared to see. There 
was a smell of brandy in the room ; it was given to her hus- 
band from time to time ; but this smell, which at first had 
produced in her a faint shuddering sensation, was now be- 
coming indifferent to her : she did not even perceive it ; she 
was too unconscious of herself to feel either temptations or 
accusations. She only felt that tlie husband of her youth 
was dying ; far, far out of her reach, as if she were standing 
helpless on the shore, while he was sinking in the black storm- 
waves ; she only yearned for one moment in which she might 
satisfy the deep forgiving pity of her soul by one look of love, 
one word of tenderness. 

Her sensations and thoughts were so persistent that she 
could not measure the hours, and it was a surprise to her when 
the nurse put out the candle, and let in the faint morning 
light. Mrs. Raynor, anxious about Janet, was already up, 
and now brought in some fresh coffee for her ; and Mr. 
Pilgrim having awaked, had hurried on his clothes and was 
coming in to see how Dempster was. 

This change from candle-light to morning, this recom- 
mencement of the same round of things that had happened 
yesterday, was a discouragement rather than a relief to Janet. 
She was more conscious of her chill weariness ; the new light 
thrown on her husband’s face seemed to reveal the still work 
that death had been doing through the night ; she felt her 
last lingering hope that he would ever know her again fore- 
sake her. 

But now, Mr. Pilgrim, having felt the pulse, was putting 
some brandy in a tea-spoon between Dempster’s lips : the 
brandy went down and his breathing became freer. Janet 
noticed the change, and her heart beat faster as she leaned 
forward to watch him. Suddenly a slight movement, like the 
the passing away of a shadow, was visible in his face, and he 
opened his eyes full on Janet. 

It was almost like meeting him again on the resurrection 
morning, after the night of the grave. 

“Robert do you know me ? ” 

He kept his eyes fixed on her, and there was a faintly per- 
ceptible motion of the lips, as if he wanted to speak. 

But the moment of speech was forever gone — the moment 
for asking pardon of her, if he wanted to ask it. Could he 
read the full forgiveness that was written in her eyes ? She 
never knew : for, as she was bending to kiss him, the thick 
veil of death fell between them, and her lips touched a corpse 


JANE'rS REPENTANCE. 


321 


CHAPTER XXV. 

The faces looked very hard and unmoved that surrounded 
Dempster’s grave, while old Mr. Crewe read the burial ser- 
vice in his low, broken voice. The pall-bearers were such 
men as Mr. Pittman, Mr. Lowme, and Mr. Budd — men whom 
Dempster had called his friends while he was in life ; and 
Vvordly faces never look so worldly as at a funeral. They 
have the same effect of grating incongruity as the sound of a 
coarse voice breaking the solemn silence of night. 

The one face that had sorrow in it was covered by a thick 
crape veil, and the sorrow was suppressed and silent. No 
one knew how deep it was ; for the thought in most of her 
neighbors’ minds was, that Mrs. Dempster could hardly have 
had better fortune than to lose a bad husband who had left 
her the compensation of a good income. They found it diffi- 
cult to conceive that her husband’s death could be felt by 
her otherwise than as a deliverance. The person who was 
most thoroughly convinced that Janet’s grief was deep and 
real, was Mr. Pilgrim, who in general was not at all weakly 
given to a belief in disinterested feeling. 

“ That woman has a tender heart,” he was frequently 
heard to observe in his morning rounds about this time. “ I 
used to think there was a great deal of palaver in her, but 
you may depend upon it there’s no pretence about her. If 
he’d been the kindest husband in the world she couldn’t have 
felt more. There’s a great deal of good in Mrs. Dempster — 
a great deal of good.” 

“ I always said so,” was Mrs. Lowme’s reply, when he 
made the observation to her; ‘^she was always so very full 
of pretty attentions to me when I was ill. But they tell me 
now she’s turned Tryanite ; if that’s it we sha’n’t agree again. 
It’s very inconsistent in* her, I think, turning round in that 
way, after being the foremost to laugh at the Tryanite cant 
and especially in a woman of her habits ; she should cure 
herself of thein before she pretends to be over-religious.” 

“ Well I think she means to cure herself, do you know,” 
said Mr. Pilgrim, whose good-will towards Janet was just now 
quite above that temperate point at which he could indulge 
his feminine patients with a little judicious detraction. “ I 
feel sure she has not taken any stimulants all through her 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


322 

husband’s illness ; and she has been constantly in the way of 
them. I can see she sometimes suffers a good deal of depres- 
sion for want of them — it shows all the more resolution in 
her. Those cures are rare ; but I’ve known them happen 
sometimes with people of strong will.” 

Mrs. Lowme took an opportunity of retailing Mr. Pilgrim’s 
conversation to Mrs. Phipps, who, as a victim of Pratt and 
plethora, could rarely enjoy that pleasure at first-hand. Mrs. 
Phipps was a woman of decided opinions, though of wheezy 
utterance. 

“ For my part,” she remarked, “ I’m glad to hear there’s 
any likelihood of improvement in Mrs. Dempster, but I think 
the way things have turned out seems to show that she was 
more to blame than people thought she was ; else, w'hy should 
she feel' so much about her husband ? And Dempster, I un- 
derstand, has left his wife pretty nearly all his property to 
do as she likes with ; that isn’t behaving like such a very 
bad husband. I don’t believe Mrs. Dempster can have had 
so much provocation as they pretended. I’ve known hus- 
bands who’ve laid plans for tormenting their waves when 
they’re underground — tying up their money and hindering 
them from marrying again. Not that I should ever wash to 
marry again ; I think one husband in one’s life is enough, in 
all conscience ; ” — here she threw a fierce glance at the ami- 
able Mr. Phipps, who w'as innocently delighting himself with 
the faceti(2 in the “ Rotherby Guardian,” and thinking the 
editor must be a droll fellow' — “ but it’s aggravating to be 
tied up in that way. Why, they say Mrs. Dempster will 
have as good as six hundred a-year at least. A fine thing 
for her, that w'as a poor girl w ithout a farthing to her fortune. 
It’s w'ell if she doesn’t make ducks and drakes of it some- 
how.” 

Mrs. Phipps’s view of Janet, however, w'as far from being 
the prevalent one in Milby. Even neighbors who had no 
strong personal interest in her, could hardly see the noble- 
looking woman in her widow’s dress, with a sad sweet gravity 
in her face, and not to be touched with fresh admiration for 
her — and not feel, at least vaguely, that she had entered on a 
new life in which it was a sort of desecration to allude to 
the painful past. And the old friends w'ho had a real regard 
for her, but whose cordiality had been repelled or chilled of 
late years, now came round her with hearty demonstrations 
of affection. Mr. Jerome felt that his happiness had a sub- 
stantial addition now he could once more call on that “ nice 


JANET^S REPENTANCE, 


323 

little woman Mrs. Dempster,” and think of her with rejoic- 
ing instead of sorrow. The Pratts lost no time in returning 
to the footing of old-established friendship with Janet and 
her mother ; and Miss Pratt felt it incumbent on her, on all 
suitable occasions, to deliver a very emphatic approval of 
the remarkable strength of mind she understood Mrs. Demp- 
ster to be exhibiting. The Miss Linnets were eager to meet 
Mr. Tryan’s wishes by greeting Janet as one who was likely 
to be a sister in religious feeling and good works ; and Mrs. 
Linnet was so agreeably surprised by the fact that Dempster 
had left his wife the money ” in that handsome way, to do 
what she liked with it,” that she even included Dempster 
himself, and his villanous discovery of the flaw in her title 
to Pye’s Croft, in her magnanimous oblivion of past offences. 
She and Mrs. Jerome agreed over a friendly cup of tea that 
there were “■ a many husbands as was very fine spoken an’ 
all that, an’ yet all the while kep’ a will locked up from you, 
as tied you up as tight as anything. I assure jw/,” Mrs. Jer- 
ome continued, dropping her voice in a confidential manner, 
“ I know no more to this day about Mr. Jerome’s will, nor the 
child as is unborn. I’ve no fears about a income — I’m well 
aware Mr. Jerome ’ud niverlet me stret for that ; but I should 
like to hev a thousand or two at my own disposial ; it makes 
a widow a deal more looked on.” 

Perhaps this ground of respect to widows might not be 
entirely without its influence on the Milby mind, and might 
do something towards conciliating those more aristocratic ac- 
quaintances of Janet’s, who would otherwise have been in- 
clined to take the severest view of her apostasy towards 
Evangelicalism. Errors look so very ugly in persons of small 
means — one feels they are taking quite a liberty in going 
astray ; whereas people of fortune may naturally indulge in a 
few delinquencies. “They’ve got the money for it,” as the 
girl said of her mistress who had made herself ill with pickled 
salmon. However it may have been, there was not an ac- 
quaintance of Janet’s in Milby, that did not offer her civili- 
ties in the early days of her widowhood. Even the severe 
Mrs. Phipps was not an exception j for heaven knows what 
would l^ecome of our sociality if we never visited people we 
speak ill of : we should live, like Egyptian hermits, in crowded 
solitude. 

Perhaps the attentions most grateful to Janet were those 
of her old friend Mrs. Crewe, whose attachment to her fa- 
vorite proved quite too strong for any resentment she might 


SCENES OE CLERICAL LIRE'. 


324 

be supposed to feel on the score of Mr. Tryan. The little 
deaf old lady coulan’t do without her accustomed visitor, 
whom she had seen grow up from child to woman, always so 
willing to chat with her and tell her all the news, though she 
was deaf ; while other people thought it tiresome to shout in 
her ear, and irritated her by recommending ear-trumpets of 
various construction. 

All this friendliness was very precious to Janet. She was 
conscious of the aid it gave her in the self conquest which 
was the blessing she prayed for with every fresh morning. 
I'he chief strength of her nature lay in her affection, which 
colored all the rest of her mind : it gave a personal sisterly 
tenderness to her acts of benevolence; it made her cling with 
tenacity to every object that had once stirred her kindly emo- 
tions. Alas ! it was unsatisfied, wounded affection that had 
made her trouble greater than she could bear. And now 
there was no check to the full flow of that plenteous current 
in her nature — no gnawing secret anguish — no overhanging 
terror — no inward shame. Friendly faces beamed on her ; 
she felt that friendly hearts were approving her, and wishing 
her well, and that mild sunshine of good-will fell beneficently 
on her new hopes and efforts, as the clear shining after rain 
falls on the tender leaf-buds of spring, and wins them from 
promise to fulfilment. 

And she needed these secondary helps, for her wrestling 
with her past self was not always easy. The strong emotions 
from which the life of a human being receives a new bias, win 
their victory as the sea wins his : though their advance may 
be sure, they will often, after a mightier wave than usual, seem 
to roll back so far as to lose all the ground they had made. 
Janet showed the strong bent of her will by taking every out- 
ward precaution against the occurrence of a temptation. Her 
mother was now her constant companion, having shut up her 
little dwelling and come to reside in Orchard Street ; and Janet 
gave all dangerous keys into her keeping, entreating her to 
lock them away in some secret place. Whenever the too well 
known depression and craving threatened her, she would seek 
a refuge in what had always been her purest enjoyment — in 
visiting one of her poor neighbors, in carrying some food or 
comfort to a sick-bed, in cheering with her smile some of the 
familiar dwellings up the dingy back-lanes. But the great 
source of courage, the great help to perseverance, was the 
sense that she had a friend and teacher in Mr. Tryan : she 
could confess her difficulties to him ; she knew he prayed for 


/ANE'rS REPENTANCE. 


325 

her ; she had always before her the prospect of soon seeing 
him, and hearing words of admonition and comfort, that came 
to her charged with a divine power such as she had never 
found in human words before. 

So the time passed, till it was far on in May, nearly a 
month after her husband’s death, when, as she and her mother 
were seated peacefully at breakfast in the dining-room, look- 
ing through the open window at the old-fashioned garden, 
where the grassplot was now whitened with apple-blossoms, a 
letter was brought in for Mrs. Kaynor. 

“Why, there’s the Thurston post-markon it,” she said. 
“ It must be about your aunt Anna. Ah, so it is, poor thing ! 
she’s been taken worse this last day or two, and has asked 
them to send for me. That dropsy is carrying her off at 
last, I daresay. Poor thing! it will be a happy release. I 
must go, my dear — she’s your father’s last sister — though I’m 
sorry to leave you. However, perhaps I shall not have to 
stay more than a night or two.” 

Janet looked distressed as she said, “Yes, you must go, 
mother. But I don’t know what I shall do without you. " I 
think I shall run into Mrs. Pettifer, and ask her to come and 
stay with me while 3^ou’re away. I’m sure she will.” 

At twelve o’clock, Janet, having seen her mother in the 
coach that was to carry her to Thurston, called, on her way 
back, at Mrs. Pettifer’s, but found, to her great disappoint- 
ment, that her old friend was gone out for the day. So she 
wrote on a leaf of her pocket-book an urgent request that 
Mrs. Pettifer would come and stay with her while her mother 
was away; and, desiring the servant-girl to give it to her 
mistress as soon as she came home, walked on to the Vicar- 
age to sit with Mrs. Crewe, thinking to relieve in this way 
the feeling of desolateness and undefined fear that was taking 
possession of her on being left alone for the first time since 
that great crisis in her life. And Mrs. Crewe, too, was not 
at home ! 

Janet, with a sense of discouragement for which she re- 
buked herself as childish, walked sadly home again ; and 
when she entered the vacant dining-room, she could not help 
bursting into tears. It is such vague undefinable states of 
susceptibility as this — states of excitement or depression, 
half mental, half physical — that determine many a tragedy in 
women’s lives. Janet could scarcely eat anything at her soli- 
tary dinner; she tried to fix her attention on a book in 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


326 

vain ; she walked about the garden, and felt the very sun- 
shine melancholy. 

Between four and five o'clock, old Mr. Pittman called, 
and joined her in the garden, where she had been sitting for 
sometime under one of the great apple-trees, thinking how 
Robert, in his best moods, used to take little Mamsey to look 
at the cucumbers, or to see the Alderney cow with its calf in 
the paddock. The tears and sobs had come again at these 
thoughts ; and when Mr. Pittman approached her, she was 
feeling languid and exhausted. But the old gentleman’s 
sight and sensibility were obtuse, and, to Janet’s satisfaction, 
he showed no consciousness that she was in grief. 

“1 have a task to impose upon you, Mrs. Dempster,” he 
said, with a certain toothless pomposity habitual to him : “ I 
want you to look over those letters again in Dempster’s 
bureau, and see if you can find one from Poole about the 
mortgage on those houses at Dingley. It will be worth 
twenty pounds, if you can find it : and I don’t know where it 
can be, if it isn’t among those letters in the bureau, I’ve 
looked everywhere at the office for it. I’m going home now, 
but I’ll call again to-morrow, if you’ll be good enough to look 
in the meantime.” 

Janet said she would look directly, and turned with Mr. 
Pittman into the house. But the search would take her some 
lime, so he bade her good-by, and she went at once to a 
bureau which stood in a small back-room, where Dempster 
used sometimes to write letters and receive people who came 
on business out of office-hours. She had looked through the 
contents of the bureau more than once ; but to-day on remov- 
ing the last bundle of letters from one of the compartments, 
she saw what she had never seen before, a small nick in the 
wood, made in the shape of a thumb-nail, evidently intended 
as a means of pushing aside the movable back of the com- 
partment. In her examination hitherto she had not found 
such a letter as Mr. Pittman had described — perhaps there 
might be more letters behind this slide. She pushed it back 
at once and saw — no letters, but a small spirit-decanter, half 
full of pale brandy, Dempster’s habitual drink. 

An impetuous desire shook Janet through all her mem- 
bers ; it seemed to master her with the inevitable force of 
strong fumes that flood our senses before we are aware. 
Her hand was on the decanter ; pale and excited, she was 
lifting it out of its niche, ..h».n, with a start and a shudder, 
.she dashed it to the ground, and th room was filled with the 


JANET^S REPENTANCE. 


327 


odor of the spirit. Without staying to shut up the bureau, 
she rushed out of the room, snatched up her bonnet and 
mantle which lay in the dining-room, and hurried out of the 
house. 

Where should she go ? In what place would this demon 
that had re-entered her be scared back again ? She walked 
rapidly along the street in the direction of the church. She 
was soon at the gate of the churchyard ; she passed through 
it, and made her way across the graves to a spot she knew — 
a spot where the turf had been stirred not long before, where 
a tomb was to be erected soon. It was very near the church 
wall, on the side which now lay in deep shadow, quite shut 
out from the rays of the western sun by a projecting buttress 

Janet sat down on the ground. It was a sombre spot. A 
thick hedge, surmounted by elm-trees, was in front of her ; a 
projecting buttress on each side. But she wanted to shut 
out even these objects. Her thick crape veil was clown ; but 
she closed her eyes behind it, and pressed her hands upon 
them. She wanted to summon up the vision of the past ; 
she wanted to lash the demon out of her soul with the sting- 
ing memories of the bygone misery ; she wanted to renew 
the old horror and the old anguish, that she might throw 
herself with the more desperate clinging energy at the foot 
of the cross, where the Divine Sufferer would impart divine 
strength. She tried to recall those first bitter moments of 
shame, which were like the shuddering discovery of the leper 
that the dire taint is upon him ; the deeper and deeper lapse ; 
the on-coming of settled despair ; the awful moments by the 
bedside of her self-maddened husband. And then she tried 
to live through, with a remembrance made more vivid by that 
contrast, the blessed hours of hope and joy and peace that 
had come to her of late, since her whole soul had been bent 
towards the attainment of purity and holiness. 

But now, when the paroxysm of temptation was past, 
dread and despondency began to thrust themselves, like coM 
heavy mists, between her and the heaven to which she wanted 
to look for light and guidance. The temptation would come 
again — that rush of desire might overmaster her the next 
time — she would slip back again into that deep slimy pit 
from which she had been once rescued, and there might be 
no deliverance for her more. Her prayers did not help her, 
for fear predominated over trust ; she had no confidence 
that the aid she sought would be given ; the idea of her future 
fall had grasped her mind too strongly. Alone, in this way, 


SCE.VES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


32S 

she was powerless. If she could see Mr. Tryan, if she could 
confess all to him, she might gather hope again. She mtisi 
see him ; she must go to him. 

Janet rose from the ground, and walked away with a 
quick resolved step. She had been seated there a long while, 
and the sun had already sunk. It was late for her to walk 
to Paddiford and go to Mr. Tryan’s, where she had never 
called before ; but there was no other way of seeing him that 
evening, and she could not hesitate about it. She walked 
towards a footpath through the fields, which would take her 
to Paddiford without obliging her to go through .the town. 
The way was rather long, but she preferred it, because it left 
less probability of her meeting acquaintances, and she shrank 
from having to speak to anyone. 

The evening red had nearly faded by the time Janet 
knocked at Mrs. Wagstaff’s door. The good woman looked 
surprised to see her at that hour; but Janet’s mourning 
weeds and the painful agitation of her face quickly brought 
the second thought, that some urgent trouble had sent her 
there. 

“ Mr. Tryan’s just come in,” she said. “ If you’ll step 
into the parlor, I’ll go up and tell him you’re here. He 
seemed very tired and poorly.” 

At another time Janet would have felt distress at the idea 
that she was disturbing Mr. Tryan when he required rest ; 
but now her need was too great for that: she could feel noth- 
ing but a sense of coming relief, when she heard his step on 
the stair and saw him enter the room. 

He went towards her with a look of anxiety, and said, “ I 
fear something is the matter. I fear you are in trouble.” 

Then poor Janet poured forth her sad tale of temptation 
and despondency ; and even while she was confessing she 
felt half her burthen removed. The act of confiding in human 
sympathy, the consciousness that a fellow-being was listening 
to her with patient pity, prepared her soul for that stronger 
leap by which faith grasps the idea of the Divine sympathy. 
When Mr. Tyran spoke words of consolation and encourage- 
ment, she could now believe the message of mercy ; the 
water-floods that had threatened to overwhelm her rolled 
back again, and life once more spread its heaven-covered 
space before her. She had been unable to pray alone ; but 
now his prayer bore her own soul along with it, as the broad 
tongue of flame carries upwards in its vigorous leap the little 
flickering fire that could hardly keep alight by itself. 


JANET’S REPENTANCE. 


329 


But Mr. Tryan was anxious that Janet should not linger 
out at this late hour. When he saw that she was calmed, he 
said, “ I will walk home with you now ; can talk on the 
way.” But Janet’s mind was now sufficiently at liberty for 
her to notice the signs of feverish weariness in his appear- 
ance, and she would not hear of causing him any further 
fatigue. 

“No, no,” she said, earnestly, “you will pain me very 
much — indeed you will, by going out again to-night on my 
account. There is no real reason why I should not go alone.” 
And when he persisted, fearing that for her to be seen out so 
late alone might excite remark, she said imploringly, with a 
half sob in her voice, “ What should I — what would others 
like me do, if you went from us ? Why will you not think 
more of that, and take care of yourself.? ” 

He had often had that appeal made to him before, but to- 
night — from Janet’s lips — it seemed to have a new force for 
him, and he gave way. At first, indeed, he only did so on 
condition that she would let Mrs. Wagstaff go with her ; but 
Janet had determined to walk home alone. She preferred 
solitude ; she wished not to have her present feelings dis- 
tracted by any conversation. 

So she went out into the dewy starlight ; and as Mr. Tryan 
turned away from her, he felt a stronger wish than ever that 
his fragile life might last out for him to see Janet’s restor- 
ation thoroughly established — to see her no longer fleeing, 
struggling, clinging up the steep sides of a precipice whence 
she might be any moment hurled back into the depths of de- 
spair, but walking firmly on the level ground of habit. He 
inwardly resolved that nothing but a peremptory duty should 
ever take him from Milby — that he would not cease to watch 
over her until life forsook him. 

Janet walked on quickly till she turned into the fields; 
then she slackened her pace a little, enjoying the sense of 
solitude which a few hours before had been intolerable to her. 
The divine presence did not now seem far off, where she had 
not wings to reach it ; prayer itself seemed superfluous in 
those moments of calm trust. The temptation which had so 
lately made her shudder before the possibilities of the future, 
was now a source of confidence ; for had she not been de- 
livered from it .? Had not rescue come in the extremity of 
danger.? Yes; Infinite Love was caring for her. She felt 
like a little child whose hand is firmly grasped by its father, as 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


330 

its frail limbs make their way over the rough ground j if it 
should stumble, the father will not let it go. 

That walk in the dewy starlight remained forever in Janet’s 
memory as one of those baptismal epochs, when the soul, 
dipped in the sacred waters of joy and peace, rising from them 
with new energies, with more unalterable longings. 

When she reached home she found Mrs. Pettifer there, 
anxious for her return. • After thanking her for coming, Janet 
only said, “ I have been to Mr. Tryaii’s ; I wanted to speak 
to him ; ” and then remembring how she had left the bureau 
and papers, she went into the back-room, where, apparently, 
no one had been since she quitted it ; for there lay the frag- 
ments of glass, and the room was still full of the hateful odor. 
How feeble and miserable the temptation seemed to her at 
this moment ! She rang for Kitty to come and pick up the 
fragments and rub the floor, while she herself replaced the 
papers and locked up the bureau. 

The next morning, when seated at breakfast with Mrs Pet- 
tifer, Janet said, 

“ What a dreary, unhealthy-looking place that is where 
Mr. Tryan lives ! I’m sure it must be very bad for him to 
live there. Do you know, all this morning, since I’ve been 
awake, I’ve been turning over a little plan in my mind. I 
think it a charming one — all the more, because you are con- 
cerned in it.” 

“ Why, what can that be ? ” 

“ You know that house on the Redhill road they call Holly 
Mount ; it is shut up now. That is Robert’s house ; at least, 
it is mine now, and it stands on one of the healthiest spots 
about here. Now, I’ve been settling in my own mind, that if 
a dear good woman of my acquaintance, who knows how to 
make a home as comfortable and cosy as a bird’s nest, were 
to take up her abode there, and have Mr. Tryan as a lodger, 
she would be doing one of the most useful deeds in all her 
useful life.” 

“ You’ve such a way of wrapping up things in pretty words. 
You must speak plainer.” 

“ In plain words, then, I should like to settle you at Holly 
Mount. You would not have to pay any more rent than where 
you are, and it would be twenty times pleasanter for you than 
living up that passage where you see nothing but a brick wall. 
And then, as it is not far from Paddiford, I think Mr. Tryan 
might be persuaded to lodge with you, instead of in that 
musty house, among dead cabbages and smoky cottages. ^ 


JANET'S REPENTANCE, 


3:- 1 

know you would like to have him with you, and you would 
be such a mother to him.” 

“ To be sure I should like it ; it would be the finest thing 
in the world for me. But there’ll be furniture wanted. My 
little bit of furniture won’t fill that house.” 

“ Oh, I can put some in out of this house ; it is too full ; 
and we can buy the rest. They tell me I’m to have more 
money than I shall know what to do with.” 

“ I’m almost afraid,” said Mrs. Pettifer, doubtfully, “ Mr. 
Tryan will hardly be persuaded. He’s been talked to so much 
about leaving that place ; and he always said he must stay 
there — he must be among the people, and there was no other 
place for him in Paddiford. It cuts me to the heart to see 
him getting thinner and thinner, and Tve noticed him quite 
short o’ breath sometimes. Mrs Linnet will have it, Mrs. 
Wagstaff half poisons him with bad cooking. I don’t know 
about that, but he can’t have many comforts. I expect he’ll 
break down all of a sudden some day, and never be able to 
preach any more.” 

“ Well, I shall try my skill with him by and by. I shall 
be very cunning, and say nothing to him till all is ready. You 
and I and mother, when she comes home, will set to wc. 
directly and get the house in order, and then we’ll get you 
snugly settled in it. I shall see Mr. Pittman to-day, and I 
will tell him what I mean to do. I shall say I wish to have 
you for a tenant. Everybody knows I’m very fond of that 
naughty person, Mrs. Pettifer ; so it will seem the most nat- 
ural thing in the world. And then I shall by and by point 
out to Mr. Tryan that he will be doing you a service as well 
as himself by taking up his abode with you, I think I can 
prevail upon him ; for last night, when he was quite bent on 
coming out into the night air, I persuaded him to give it up. 

“ Well, I only hope you may, my dear. I don’t desire any 
thing better than to do something towards prolonging Mr. 
Tryan’s life, for I’ve sad fears about him.” 

“ Don’t speak of them — I can’t bear to think of them. We 
will only think about getting the house ready. We shall be as 
busy as bees. How we shall want mother s clever fingers ! ^I 
know the room up stairs that will just do for Mr. Tryan s 
study. There shall be no seats in it except a very easy chair 
and a very easy sofa, so that he shall be obliged to rest him- 
self when he comes home.” 


332 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

That was the last terrible crisis of temptation Janet had 
to pass through. The good-will of her neighbors, the helpful 
sympathy of the friends who shared her religious feelings, the 
occupations suggested to her by Mr. Tryan, concurred with 
her strong spontaneous impulses towards works of love and 
mercy, to fill up her days with quiet social intercourse and 
charitable exertion. Besides, her constitution, naturally 
healthy and strong, was every week tending, with the gather- 
ing force of habit, to recover its equipoise, and set her free 
from those physical solicitations which the smallest habitual 
vice always leaves behind it. The prisoner feels where the 
iron has galled him, long after his letters have been loosed. 

There were always neighborly visits to be paid and re- 
ceived ; and as the months wore on, increasing familiarity 
with Janet’s present self began to efface, even from minds as 
rigid as Mrs. Phipps’s, the unpleasant impressions that had 
been left by recent years. Janet was recovering the popu- 
larity which her beauty and sweetness of nature had won for 
her when she was a girl ; and popularity, as everyone knows, 
is the most complex and self-multiplying of echoes. Even 
anti-Tryanite prejudice could not resist the fact that Janet 
Dempster was a changed woman — changed as the dusty, 
bruised, and sun-withered plant is changed when the soft rains 
of heaven have fallen on it — and that this change was due to 
Mr. Tryan’s influence. The last lingering sneers against the 
Evangelical curate began to die out ; and though much of the 
feeling that had prompted them remained behind, there was 
an intimidating consciousness that the expression of such 
feeling would not be effective — jokes of that sort had ceased 
to tickle the Milby mind. Even Mr. Budd and Mr. Tomlin- 
son, when they saw Mr. Tryan passing pale and worn along 
the street, had a secret sense that this man was somehow not 
that very natural and comprehensible thing, a humbug — that, 
in fact, it was impossible to explain him from the stomach- 
and-pocket point of view. Twist and stretch their theory as 
they might, it would not fit Mr. Tryan ; and so, with that 
remarkable resemblance as to mental processes which may 
frequently be observed to exist between plain men and phil- 


JANET^S REPENTANCE, 333 

osophers, they concluded that the less they said about him 
the better. 

Among all Janet’s neighborly pleasures, there was noth- 
ing she liked better than to take an early tea at the White 
House, and to stroll with Mr. Jerome round the old-fashioned 
garden and orchard. There was endless matter for talk be- 
tween her and the good old man, for Janet had that genuine 
delight in human fellowship which gives an interest to all 
personal details that come warm from truthful lips j and, be- 
sides, they had a common interest in good-natured plans for 
helping their poorer neighbors. One great object of Mr. 
Jerome’s charities was, as he often said, “ to keep industrious 
men an’ women off the parish. I’d rather give ten shillin’ 
an’ help a man to stand on his own legs, nor pay half-a-crown 
to buy him a parish crutch ; it’s the ruination on him if he 
once goes to the parish. I’ve see’d many a time, if you help 
a man wi’ a present in a neeborly way, it sweetens his blood 
— he thinks it kind on you j but the parish shillins turn it 
sour — he never thinks ’em enough. In illustration of this 
opinion Mr. Jerome had a large store of details about such 
persons as Jim Hardy, the coal-carrier, “ as lost his boss,” 
and Sally Butts, “ as hed to sell her mangle, though she was 
as decent a woman as need to be ; ” to the hearing of v/hich 
details Janet seriously inclined : and you would hardly desire 
to see a prettier picture than the kind-faced, white-haired old 
man telling these fragments of his simple experience as he 
walked, with shoulders slightly bent, among the moss-roses 
and espalier apple-trees, while Janet in her widow’s cap, her 
dark eyes bright with interest, went listening by his side, and 
little Lizzie, with her nankin bonnet hanging down her back, 
toddled on before them. Mrs. Jerome usually declined these 
lingering strolls, and often observed, “ I niver see the like to 
Mr. Jerome when he’s got Mrs. Dempster to talk to ; it sinni- 
fies nothin’ to him whether we’ve tea at four or at five o’clock ; 
he’d go on till six, if you’d let him alone — he’s like off his 
head.” However, Mrs. Jerome herself could not deny that 
Janet was a very pretty-spoken woman : “ She aly’s says she 
niver gets sich pikelets as mine nowhere ; I know that very 
well — other folks buy ’em at shops — thick unwholesome 
things, you might as well eat a sponge.” 

The sight of little Lizzie often stirred in Janet’s mind a 
sense of the childlessness which had made a fatal blank in 
her life. She had fleeting thoughts that perhaps among her 
husband’s distant relatives there might be some children 


SCEiYES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


334 

whom she could help to bring up, some little girl whom she 
might adopt ; and she promised herself one day or other to 
hunt out a second cousin of his — a married woman — of whom 
he had lost sight for many years. 

But at present her hands and heart were too full for her 
to carry out that scheme. To her great disappointment, her 
project of settling Mrs. Pettifer at Holly Mount had been de- 
layed by the discovery that some repairs were necessary in 
order to make the house habitable, and it was not till Septem- 
ber had set in that she had the satisfaction of seeing her old 
friend comfortably installed, and the rooms destined for Mr. 
Tryan looking pretty and cosy to her heart’s content. She 
had taken several of his chief friends into her confidence, and 
they were warmly wishing success to her plan for inducing 
him to quit poor Mrs. Wagstaff’s dingy house and dubious 
cookery. That he should consent to some such change was 
becoming more and more a matter of anxiety to his hearers \ 
for though no more decided symptoms were yet observable in 
him than increasing emaciation, a dry hacking cough, and an 
occasional shortness of breath, it was felt that the fulfilment 
of Mr. Pratt’s prediction could not long be deferred, and that 
this obstinate persistence in labor and self-disregard must 
soon be peremptorily cut short by a total failure of strength. 
Any hopes that the influence of Mr. Tryan’s father and sister 
would prevail on him to change his mode of life — that they 
would perhaps come to live with him, or that his sister at 
least might come to see him, and that the arguments which 
had failed from other lips might be more persuasive from 
hers — were now quite dissipated. His father had lately had 
an attack of paralysis, and could not spare his only daughter’s 
tendance. On Mr. Tryan’s return from a visit to his father, 
Miss Linnet was very anxious to know whether his sister had 
not urged him to try a change of air. From his answers she 
gathered that Miss Tryan wished him to give up his curacy and 
travel, or at least go to the south Devonshire coast. 

“ And why will you not do so ? ” Miss Linnet said , “you 
might come back to us well and strong, and have many years 
of usefulness before you.” 

“ No,” he answered quietly, “ I think people attach more 
importance to such measures than is warranted. I don’t see 
any good end that is to be served by going to die at Nice, 
instead of dying amongst one’s friends and one’s work. I 
cannot leave Milby — at least I will not leave it voluntarily.” 

But though he remained immovable on this point, he had 


JANET'S REPENTANCE. 


335 

been compelled to give up his aftrrnoon service on the Sun- 
day, and to rccept Mr. Parry’s offer of aid in the evening ser- 
vice, asw eil asto curtail his weekday labors ; and he had even 
written to Mr. Prendergast to request that he would appoint 
another curate to the Paddiford district, on the understanding 
that the new curate should receive the salary, but that Mr. 
Try an should co-operate with him as long as he was able. The 
hopefulness which is an almost constant attendant on con- 
sumption, had not the effect of deceiving him as to the nature 
of his malady, or of making him look forward to ultimate re- 
covery. He believed himself to be consumptive, and he had 
not yet felt any desire to escape the early death which he had for 
some time contemplated as probable. Even diseased hopes 
will take their direction from the strong habitual bias of the 
mind, and to Mr. Tryan death had for years seemed nothing 
else than the laying down of a burthen, under which he some- 
times felt himself fainting. He was only sanguine about his 
powers of work : he flattered himself that what he was unable 
to do one week he should be equal to the next, and he would 
not admit that in desisting from any part of his labor he was 
renouncing it permanently. He had lately delighted Mr. 
Jerome by accepting his long-proffered loan of the “ little 
chacenut boss ; ” and he found so much benefit from substitu- 
ting constant riding exercise for walking, that he began to 
think he should soon be able to resume some of the work he 
had dropped. 

That was a happy afternoon for Janet, when, after exert- 
ing herself busily for a week with her mother and Mrs. Petti- 
fer, she saw Holly Mount looking orderly and comfortable 
from attic to cellar, It was an old red-brick house, with two 
gables in front, and two clipped holly-trees flanking the gar- 
den-gate ; a simple, homely-looking place, that quiet people 
might easily get fond of ; and now it was scoured and polished 
and carpeted and furnished so as to look really snug within. 
When there was nothing more to be done, Janet delighted 
herself with contemplating Mr. Tryan’s study, first sitting 
down in the easy-chair, and then lying for a moment on the 
sofa, that she might have a keener sense of the repose he 
would get from those well-stuffed articles of furniture, which 
she had gone to Rotherby on purpose to choose. 

“ Now, mother,” she said, when she had finished her sur- 
vey, “ you have done your work as v/ell as any fairy-mother or 
god-mother that ever turned a pumpkin into a coach and 
horses. You stay and have tea cosily with Mrs. Pettifer 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


336 

while I go to Mrs. Linnet’s. I want to tell Mary and Rebec- 
ca the good news, that I’ve got the exciseman to promise that 
he will take Mrs. Wagstaff’s lodgings when Mr. I'ryan leaves 
They’ll be so pleased to hear it, because they thought he 
would make her poverty an objection to his leaving her.” 

“ But, my dear child,” said Mrs. Raynor, whose face, al- 
ways calm, was now a happy one, “ have a cup of tea with us 
first. You’ll perhaps miss Mrs. Linnet’s tea-time.” 

“ No, I feel too excited to take tea yet. I’m like a child 
with a new baby-house. Walking in the air will do me 
good.” 

So she set out. Holly Mount was about a mile from that 
outskirt of Paddiford Common where Mrs. Linnet's house 
stood nestled among its laburnums, lilac.s, and syringas. 
Janet’s way thither lay for a little while along the high-road, 
and then led her into a deep-rutted lane, which wound 
through a flat tract of meadow and pasture, while in front lay 
smoky Paddiford, and away to the left the mother-town of 
Milby. There was no line of silvery willows marking the 
course of a stream — no group of Scotch firs with their trunks 
reddening in the level sunbeams — nothing to break the flow- 
erless monotony of glass and hedgerow but an occasional oak 
or elm, and a few cows sprinkled here and there. A very 
commonplace scene, indeed. But what scene was ever com- 
monplace in the descending sunlight, when color has awaken- 
ed from its noonday sleep, and the long shadows awe us like 
a disclosed presence ? Above all, what scene is commonplace 
to the eye that is filled with serene gladness, and brightens 
all things with its own joy? 

And Janet just now was very happy. As she walked 
along the rough lane with a buoyant step, a half smile of inno- 
cent, kindly triumph played about her mouth. She was de- 
lighting beforehand in the anticipated success of her persua- 
sive power, and for the time her painful anxiety about Mr. 
Tryan’s health was thrown into abeyance. But she had not 
gone far along the lane before she heard the sound of a horse 
advancing at a walking pace behind her. Without looking 
back, she turned aside to make way for it between the ruts, 
and did not notice that for a moment it had stopped, and had 
then come on with a slightly quickened pace. In less than 
a minute she heard a well-known voice say, “ Mrs. Demp- 
ster ; ” and, turning, saw Mr. Tryan close to her, holding his 
horse by the bridle. It seemed very natural to her that he 
should be there. Her mind was so full of his presence at 


JANET'S NEFENTANCE. 


337 


that moment, that the actual sight of him was only like a more 
vivid thought, and she behaved, as we are apt to do when 
feeling obliges us to be genuine, with a total forgetfulness of 
polite forms. She only looked at him with a slight deepen- 
ing of the smile that was already on her face. He said 
gently, “ Take my arm j ” and they walked on a little way in 
silence. 

It was he who broke it. “ You are going to Paddiford, I 
suppose ? ” 

The question recalled Janet to the consciousness that this 
was an unexpected opportunity for beginning her work of 
persuasion, and that she was stupidly neglecting it. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I was going to Mrs. Linnet’s. I knew 
Miss Linnet would like to hear that our friend Mrs. Pettifer 
is quite settled now in her new house. She is as fond of Mrs. 
Pettifer as I am — almost ; I won’t admit that any one loves 
her qidte as well, for no one else has such good reason as I 
have. But now the dear woman wants a lodger, for you knov/ 
she can’t afford to live in so large a house by herself. But 
I knew when I persuaded her to go there that she would be 
sure to get one — she’s such a comfortable creature to live 
with ; and I didn’t like her to spend all the rest of her days 
up that dull passage, being at every one’s beck and call who 
wanted to make use of her.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Tryan, I quite understand your feeling ; 
I don’t wonder at your strong regard for her.” 

“ Well, but now I want her other friends to second me. 
There she is, with three rooms to let, ready furnished, every 
thing in order ; and I know some one, who thinks as well of 
her as I do, and who would be doing good all round — to 
every one that knows him, as well as to Mrs. Pettifer, if he 
would go to live with her. He would leave some uncomfort- 
able lodgings, which another person is already coveting and 
would take immediately ; and he would go to breathe pure 
air at Holly Mount, and gladden Mrs. Pettifer’s heart by let- 
ting her wait on him ; and comfort all his friends, who are 
quite miserable about him.” 

Mr. Tryan saw it all in a moment — he saw that it had all 
been done for his sake. He could not be sorry ; he could 
not say no ; he could not resist the sense that life had a new 
sweetness for him, and that he should like it to be prolonged 
a little, only a little, for the sake of feeling a stronger security 
about Janet. When she had finished speaking, she looked 
at him with a doubtful, inquiring glance. He was not look- 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


338 

ing at her ; his eyes were cast downward ; but the expression 
of his face encouraged her, and she said, in a half-playful tone 
of entreaty, 

“ You ivill go and live with her ? I know you will. You 
will come back with me now and see the house.” 

He looked at her then, and smiled. There is an un- 
speakable blending of sadness and sweetness in the smile of 
a face sharpened by slow consumption. That smile of Mr. 
Tryan’s pierced poor Janet’s heart ’ she felt in it at once the 
assurance of grateful affection and the prophecy of coming 
death. Her tears rose ; they turned round without speakings 
and went back again along the lane. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

In less than a week Mr. Tryan was settled at Holly Mount, 
and there was not one of his many attached hearers who did 
not sincerely rejoice at the event. 

The autumn that year was bright and warm, and at the 
beginning of October, Mr. Walsh, the new curate, came. The , 
mild weather, the relaxation from excessive work, and per- 
haps another benignant influence, had for a few weeks a visi- 
bly favorable effect on Mr. Tryan. At least he began to feel 
new hopes, which sometimes took the guise of new strength. 
He thought of the cases in which consumptive patients re- 
main nearly stationary for years, without suffering so as to 
make their life burthensome to themselves or to others ; and 
he began to struggle with a longing that it might be so with 
him. He struggled with it, because he felt it to be an indi- 
cation that earthly affection was beginning to have too strong 
a hold on him, and he prayed earnestly for more perfect sub- 
mission, and for a more absorbing delight in the Divine Pres- 
ence as the chief good. He was conscious that he did not 
wish for prolonged life solely that he might reclaim the wan- 
derers and sustain the feeble ; he was conscious of a new 
yearning for those pure human joys which he had voluntarily 
and determinedly banished from his life — for a draught of 
that deep affection from which he had been cut off by a dark 
chasm of remorse. For now, that affection was within his 
reach ; he saw it there, like a palm-shadowed well in the des- 
ert ; he could not desire to die in sight of it. 


JANET'S REPENTANCE. 


339 

And so the autumn rolled gently by in its “ calm decay.’* 
Until November, Mr. d'ryan continued to preach occasionally, 
to ride about visiting his flock, and to look in at his schools • 
but his growing satisfaction in Mr. Walsh as his successor 
saved him from too eager exertion and from worrying anx- 
ieties. Janet was with him a great deal now, for she saw that 
ne liked her to read to him in the lengthening evenings, and 
it became the rule for her and her mother to have tea at Holly 
Mount, where, with Mrs. Pettifer, and sometimes another 
friend or two, they brought Mr. Tyran the unaccustomed en- 
joyment of companionship by his own fireside. 

Janet did not share his new hopes, for she was not only in 
the habit of hearing Mr. Pratt’s opinion that Mr. Tryan could 
hardly stand out through the winter, but she also knew that 
it was shared by Dr. Madely, of Rotherby, whom, at her re- 
quest, he had consented to call in. It was not necessary or 
desirable to tell Mr. Tryan what was revealed by the stetho- 
scope, but Janet knew the worst. 

She felt no rebellion under this prospect of bereavement, 
but rather a quiet submissive sorrow. Gratitude that his in- 
fluence and guidance had been given her, even if only for a 
little while — gratitude that she was permitted to be with him, to 
take a deeper and deeper impress from daily communion with 
him, to be something to him in these last months of his life, was 
so strong in her that it almost silenced regret. Janet had lived 
through the great tragedy of woman’s life. Her keenest per- 
sonal emotions had been poured forth in her early love — her 
wounded affection with its years of anguish — her agony of un- 
availing pity over that deathbed seven months ago. The 
thought of Mr. Tryan was associated for her with repose from 
that conflict of emotion, with trust in the unchangeable, with the 
influx of a power to subdue self. To have been assured of 
his sympathy, his teaching, his help, all through her life, would 
have been to her like a heaven already begun — a deliverance 
from fear and danger ; but the time was not yet come for her 
to be conscious that the hold he had on her heart was any other 
than that of the heaven-sent friend who had come to her like the 
angel in the prison, and loosed her bonds, and led her by the 
hand till she could look back on the dreadful doors that had 
once closed her in. 

Before November was over, Mr. Tyran had ceased to go 
out. A new crisis had come on : the cough had changed its 
character, and the worst symptoms developed themselves so 
rapidly that Mr. Pratt began to think the end would arrive 


340 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, 


sooner than he had expected. Janet became a constant at- 
tendant on him now, and no one could feel that she was per- 
forming anything but a sacred office. She made Holly Mount 
her home, and, with her mother and Mrs. Pettifer to help her, 
she filled the painful days and nights with every soothing in- 
fluence that care and tenderness could devise. There were 
many visitors to the sick-room, led thither by venerating af- 
fection j and there could hardly be one who did not retain in 
after years a vivid remembrance of the scene there — of the pale 
wasted form in the easy-chair (for he sat up to the last), of the 
gray eyes so full even yet of inquiring kindness, as the thin, 
almost transparent hand was held out to give the pressure of 
welcome ; and of the sweet woman, too, whose dark watchful 
eyes detected every want, and who supplied the want with a 
ready hand. 

There were others who would have had the heart and the 
skill to fill this place by Mr. Tryan’s side, and who would have 
accepted it as an honor ; but they could not help feeling that 
God had given it to Janet by a train of events wliichwere too 
impressive not to shame all jealousies into silence. 

That sad history which most of us know too well, lasted 
more than three months. He was too feeble and suffering 
for the last few weeks to see any visitors, but he still sat up 
through the day. The strange hallucinations of the disease 
which had seemed to take a more decided hold on him just at 
the fatal crisis, and had made him think he was perhaps get- 
ting better at the very time when death had begun to hurry on 
with more rapid movement, had now given way and left him 
calmly conscious of the reality. One afternoon, near the 
end of February, Janet was moving gently about the room, in 
the fire-lit dusk, arranging some things that would be wanted 
in the night. There was no one else in the room, and his eyes 
followed her as she moved with the firm grace natural to her 
while the bright fire every now and then lit up her face, and 
gave an unusual glow to its dark beauty. Even to follow her 
in this way with his eyes was an exertion that gave a painful 
tension to his face, while she looked like an image of life and 
strength. 

“Janet,” he said presently, in his faint voice — he always 
called her Janet now. In a moment she was close to him, 
bending over him. He opened his hand as he looked up at 
her, and she placed hers within it. 

“ Janet,” he said again, “ you will have a long while to live 
after I am gone.” 


-0 !9M 


JA NE T'S EEPENTA NCE. 


341 


A sudden pang of fear shot through her. She thought he 
felt himself dying, and she sank on her knees at liis feet, 
holding his ha d while she looked up at him almost breath^ 
less. 

“ But you will not feel the. need of me as you have done 
You have a sure trust in God. ... I shall not look for you 
in vain at the last.” 

“ No. . . no. . . . I shall be there. . . . God will not 
forsake me.” 

She could hardly utter the words, though she was not 
weeping. She was waiting with trembling, eagerness for any- 
thing else he might have to say. 

“ Let us kiss each other before we part.” 

She lifted up her face to his, and the full life-breathing 
lips met the wasted dying ones in a sacred kiss of promise. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

It soon came — the blessed day of deliverance, the sad day 
of bereavement ; and in the second week of March they car- 
ried him to the grave. He was buried as he had desired : there 
was no hearse, no mourning-coach : his coffin was borne by 
twelve of his humbler hearers, who relieved each other by 
turns. But he was followed by a long procession of mourn- 
ing friends, women as well as men. 

Slowly, amid deep silence, the dark stream passed along 
Orchard Street, where eighteen months before the Evangelical 
curate had been saluted with hooting and hisses. Mr. Jerome 
and Mr. Landor were the eldest pall-bearers ; and behind ihe 
coffin, led by Mr. Tryan's cousin, walked Janet, in quiet sub- 
missive sorrow. She could not feel that he was quite gone 
from her; the unseen world lay so very near her — it held all that 
had ever stirred the depths of anguish and joy within her. 

It was a cloudy morning, and had been raining when they 
left Holly Mount ; but as they walked, the sun broke out, and 
the clouds were rolling off in large masses when they entered 
the churchyard, and Mr. Walsh’s voice was heard saying, “I 
am the Resurrection and the Life.” The faces were not hard 
at this funeral : the burial-service was not a hollow form. Every 
heart there was filled with the memory of a man who, through a 


342 


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 



self-sacrificing life and in a painful death, had been sustained 
by the faith which fills that form with breath and substance. 

When Janet left the grave, she did not return to Hollow 
Mount ; she went to her home in Orchard Street, where her 
mother was waiting to receive -her. She said quite calmly, 

“ Let us walk round the garden, mother.’’ And they walked 
round in silence, with their hands clasped together, looking at 
the golden crocuses bright in the spring sunshine. Janet 
felt a deep stillness within. She thirsted for no pleasure, she 
craved no worldly good. She saw the years to come stretch 
before her like an autumn afternoon, filled with resigned mem- 
ory. Life to her could never more have any eagerness ; it 
was a solemn .service of gratitude and patient elfort. She 
walked in the presence of unseen witnesses — of the Divine 
love that had rescued her, of the human love that waited for 
its eternal repose until it had seen her endure to the end. 

Janet is living still. Her black hair is gray, and her step 
is no longer buoyant ; but the sweetness of her smile remains, 
the love is not gone from her eyes ; and strangers sometimes 
ask. Who is that noble-looking elderly woman, that walks 
about holding a little boy by the hand ? The little boy is the 
son of Janet’s adopted daughter, and Janet in her old age has 
children about her knees, and loving young arms round her. 
neck. 

There is a simple gravestone in Milby churchyard, telling 
that in this spot lie the remains of Edgar Tryan, for two years 
officiating curate at the Paddiford Chapel of Ease, in this 
parish. It is a meagre memorial, and tells you simply that 
the man who lies there took upon him, faithfully or unfaithfully, 
the office of guide and instructor to his fellow-men. 

But there is another memorial of Edgar Tyran, which bears 
a fuller record: it is Janet Dempster, rescued from self-despair, 
strengthened with divine hopes, and now looking back on 
years of purity and helpful labor. The man who has left such 
a memorial behind him, must have been one whose heart beat 
with true compassion, and whose lips were moved by fervent 
faith. 



THE END. 










{ 

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I 


, 




